Chances
by Jane Elliott
Summary: Life rarely turns out the way you expect it to. Homeless RayK AU. Fraser/RayK.
1. Chance Encounters

A/N: I fudged the series timelines to make this work. Also, this is my first attempt at posting a WIP here and (fair warning) I have no current timeline on when the series might be finished. On the plus side, the first four stories are finished and there's only one left to go! Big thanks to blackpapertiger, who beta'd the first four stories.

**Chances 1: Chance Encounters**

It was ironic, Fraser thought as he stared down the shaking gun barrel into the thief's bloodshot eyes, that having survived Harold Geiger, Victoria Metcalf, a plethora of corrupt Mounties, and deep winter in the Northwest Territories, he was going to die here, in a dirty convenience store in Chicago at the hands of a terrified teenager going through narcotics withdrawal. He wondered what Ray would have said about this, but of course if Ray were here to say anything then Fraser wouldn't be in this predicament. Ray would have done something: distracted the gunman or maybe disarmed him while Fraser provided the distraction. If nothing else, he would have called for backup on his cell phone, a convenience Fraser had always shunned.

However, Ray wasn't here. In point of fact, he was a thousand kilometers away in Las Vegas, pretending to be a mob boss, and his substitute -- Frankie Vecchio, Ray's cousin -- had taken a transfer to New York City a week before. All of which meant Fraser was alone, as he had been for most of his life until meeting Ray. On second thought, not so ironic. Men who lived alone usually died alone.

"You don't have to do this," Fraser told the boy. His voice came out stern and didactic despite his effort to sound comforting. Every day he grew more like his father.

As if that thought had conjured him -- which was, frankly, quite likely -- a familiar, highly irritating voice said, "You've gotten yourself into it this time, son."

Fraser closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. When he was under control, he focused his attention back on the thief. "Give me the gun and I swear that I will do everything I can to help you."

"I doubt he's capable of listening to reason," his father said. "This reminds me of the time that Buck Frobisher and I tracked George Murphy through the tundra after finding the specialized farming equipment in his barn. As he fled he was feeding his crop to a nearby caribou herd in the hopes of destroying the evidence. Of course, all we had to do was wait for the herd to--"

"There's nothing you can do to help me," the boy said, his voice high-pitched and thankfully loud enough to drown out Robert Fraser's words. The thief swallowed convulsively and swiped his sweaty face with the arm of his threadbare jacket. "I need a hit," he added miserably.

"I can't do that," Fraser said as gently as he could, doing his best to ignore his father's description of a herd of caribou under the influence of marijuana. "However, there are many fine programs for--"

"Rehab?" the boy said incredulously. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

The boy's hands were now trembling so badly that there was a distinct possibility that he would pull the trigger by accident. "Look out, son!" Robert shouted as the boy shuddered convulsively, his finger tightening on the trigger. Fraser's spine tightened painfully and he jumped to one side, knowing it was too late, knowing that even the rankest amateur couldn't miss at this range.

A grunt, then the gunshot, and a bag of pretzels exploded just over Fraser's shoulder. He hit the ground and rolled, coming back up onto his feet to see the gunman on the ground and disarmed, a thin man with lank, dirty, blond hair sitting on his back and holding the weapon out of reach of the boy's flailing arms. "Got any cuffs?" the man asked matter-of-factly, managing to pin one of the boy's arms with a knee and grabbing the other in his free hand.

Fraser blinked. "Well, no, not exactly," he said. "But I do have this." Stripping off his lanyard, he handed it to the man, who used it to efficiently tie the boy's hands behind his back.

Standing up, the man hauled the boy to his feet and passed him and the gun over to Fraser. "Here," he said. "The guy behind the counter's already called the cops. They should be here soon." He turned, obviously intending to leave.

"Wait," Fraser said. The man hesitated by the door. "You can't leave until the police come to get your statement."

The man snorted, shoved the doors open, and left.

Fraser swallowed a curse and turned to the man behind the counter. "Could you watch this boy for a few minutes?"

"Watch him?" the man repeated incredulously. Then his eyes narrowed and he grinned in a decidedly unpleasant manner. "Sure, I can watch him for you."

The boy squeaked and pushed closer to Fraser. Fraser frowned. "I will, of course, need your word that no harm will come to him."

"I'd never hurt a boy," the man said piously.

"No," the boy said desperately. "Don't leave me with him, please."

"I don't think you can trust him," Robert added, somewhat less than helpfully.

"I can see that, Dad," Fraser snapped.

The shop was suddenly very, very quiet. Fraser's face burned.

Fortunately the police arrived just a few minutes later. Unfortunately, by that point Fraser's savior had long since disappeared.

ooo

The next morning, Lieutenant Welsh called the consulate. He did so occasionally, following up on old cases or on minor matters related to Canada. Nothing that couldn't be gleaned from case files or the Internet. Fraser strongly suspected that Ray had asked Welsh to keep an eye on him and he had to admit that he was grateful for the calls; they made him feel less abandoned.

"I heard you had a small run-in yesterday," Welsh said in his gruff voice. Fraser knew that that voice made most men nervous; he found it oddly comforting. "You know, most people go their whole lives without getting involved in a robbery. You seem to collect them like some people collect baseball cards."

"Well, my luck always has been remarkably, ah...uncertain."

Welsh chuckled. "Truer words were never spoken, Constable."

Fraser cleared his throat, but he couldn't seem to stop the question. "Have you heard from Ray recently, sir?"

"Yeah," Welsh said, his voice gentle. "He's gotten settled in New York."

"And Frankie?" Fraser added, without much hope. It had only been a month, nowhere near long enough for Ray to have completed his assignment.

"Nothing," Welsh confirmed. "Sorry, Constable. He's never been very good at keeping in touch." Welsh shouldn't have added the last sentence; Fraser's connection with the real Frankie had been tenuous at best and it wouldn't make sense for him to be more concerned for a stranger than he had for Ray. Fraser didn't say anything, however. He appreciated the sentiment.

"Tell me more about this mysterious man who saved you," Welsh said before the silence could get too awkward.

Fraser clung to the lifeline. "Ah, well. He was five feet ten inches and approximately one hundred and thirty pounds with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and some minor scarring on his face. His clothing was threadbare and insufficient for the weather and the number of broken capillaries on his nose indicates that he is a heavy drinker. In fact, if it weren't for his manner, I would have concluded he was indigent."

"His manner?"

"Yes, sir. He disarmed and subdued the perpetrator quickly and effectively and his manner was far more confident than that of most civilians in a similar situation. I think there is a distinct possibility that he is or was a member of a military or police force. Yet, if that were the case, I can't see why he wouldn't have waited for the police to arrive. He did nothing wrong. The opposite, in fact."

There was a pause while Welsh considered the information. "This is interesting, Constable, very interesting. I think I might have an idea on who this mysterious man is."

Fraser's hand tightened convulsively around the handset. "Indeed, sir?"

"Indeed, Constable," Welsh said. "Let me look into this and get back to you with what I find."

"I would appreciate that very much."

"And I'll ask around about Frankie," Welsh added.

Fraser blinked rapidly and swallowed hard. "Thank you, sir," he said hoarsely.

They met several hours later at a bar a block from the Consulate, one of the few restaurants in town that Fraser still frequented. Welsh took in the plants and the all male crowd and raised his eyebrows at Fraser. "Come here often?"

"Ah," Fraser said. "They have excellent sandwiches," he added. Welsh looked amused, but Fraser couldn't tell if it was because he had noticed Fraser's deflection or because he had accepted it. "Shall we sit?" he added hastily.

They settled into a booth at the back and ordered beer (for Welsh), milk (for Fraser), and sandwiches before Welsh pulled out a folder. "Take a look at this, Constable," Welsh said, passing over a photograph.

Fraser took the picture by the corner and inspected it. It was of a young man, twenty-five at most, with clear blue eyes and wearing a neatly pressed uniform. The hair was covered up by a cap and the face was unscarred, but Fraser would never forget those eyes. "So he is a police officer."

"He _was_ a police officer," Welsh corrected. "He's been off the force for a couple of years now." He took the picture back and passed over the folder. "You didn't get this from me," he warned.

Fraser nodded and started to read.

By the time he reached the end of the file, Welsh had finished his burger and fries and was eyeing Fraser's turkey on wheat. Fraser pushed his plate over, appetite gone. "Opinions are divided as to whether he did it," Welsh said, taking the plate. "I personally don't think he did and the Feds obviously don't, but everyone agrees his actions before it happened were way out of line. Kowalski was a good cop, but that doesn't make up for that kind of behavior."

Fraser licked his lip nervously, but didn't answer. It wasn't as if he, of anyone, had the right to condemn a man for being obsessed with a woman.

Finishing half of Fraser's sandwich, Welsh sat back with a satisfied sigh. "So, Constable," he said, looking at Fraser intently. "What do you plan to do with that file you didn't read?"

"I believe that should be obvious, sir," Fraser answered. "I'm going to find him."

ooo

Ray went straight from the botched robbery at the 7-11 to the nearest liquor store and used his cigarette money to buy a bottle of Jack. Rotgut was cheaper and got the job done at the end of the month when Ray was down to the last few bucks from his shitty pension check, but he'd just done something incredibly fucking stupid and now he needed to get drunk as fast as humanly possible. For that, he needed Jack.

Double-bagged bottle in hand, Ray hurried to his latest hideout, trying to ignore the sirens racing towards the convenience store. Towards the Mountie. Jesus fucking Christ, Ray had just saved the fucking Mountie. So much for keeping a low fucking profile. And it didn't take a genius to know what was going to happen next. The Mountie never gave up. Everyone knew that.

Ten minutes later he was pushing his way through a hole in the fence surrounding a school that had recently been shut down. He'd been at this place for a week now, taking advantage of the running water until it was shut off. Ray had plenty of experience with bureaucratic red tape -- he figured he had at least another few weeks before someone noticed that the school district was still paying a tiny water bill for a school that was no longer open. Of course, he wasn't the only one to find this place, but as usual faces turned away as he drew near, fear in their eyes. Ray had lost most of the last couple of years to drunken blackouts, but he had been a detective once and he didn't need anyone to tell him that something had happened, something bad. He just hoped that he hadn't killed anyone.

Glancing around to make sure that no one was watching him, Ray went to the thirteenth locker on the bottom row and opened it silently. It was different than the locker he'd used the night before, just like that one had been different than the one he'd used the night before that. No lock, because that would advertise that there was something worth stealing. Ray had had everything he owned stolen at one point or another, usually when he was too drunk to notice, but his current coat was the nicest he'd had since he'd lost the one that St-...that he'd gotten a few years before, and he wanted to keep it, at least until things warmed up.

Confident he was alone, Ray grabbed his blankets and the half-eaten bag of cookies he'd bought to celebrate surviving another month (and because, goddamn it, if there was one advantage to being alone, it was that there was no one to bitch at you about eating too much sugar), and retreated to the nurse's office. He'd been the first one to claim it and no one had tried to take over yet; there were some advantages to having a bad reputation. Ray certainly wasn't going to complain about sleeping on a bed.

Locking the door and pulling down the blind, Ray settled in with his bottle and his cookies. For once, however, his thoughts did not immediately turn to...her. Instead, he found himself pondering the question of the Mountie.

The Mountie. Ray unscrewed the bottle and took a slug. He'd heard rumors about the Mountie for years, ever since his last couple of months on the force, when the Mountie had first arrived and screwed Vecchio's already shitty reputation. Then It happened, and the subsequent IA investigation, and by the time Ray came out of an alcohol induced stupor two weeks later, lying behind a dumpster and stripped of anything of value, the rumors had changed, or maybe it was just because he was hearing them from the other side of the fence, because the Mountie was still gullible and impossible, but he was also honest and someone you could turn to for help.

Over the years, Ray had seen the Mountie several times -- the man seemed to enjoy riding on the roofs of cars and running along the roofs of buildings. Sort of an obsession for roofs, period, but maybe that was what turned his crank. That, or heights. Probably not that many skyscrapers in Nowheresville, Canada.

As many times as Ray had seen the Mountie, however, the Mountie had only seen Ray once. In the convenience store. Fuck. Ray brought the bottle to his lips and started drinking seriously. Fuck the hangover. Tonight Ray wanted oblivion.

ooo

Within twenty-four hours of the botched robbery, eight different people had asked Ray if he was a cop, and each time the question was asked in an increasingly hostile tone. Ray muttered inventive curses about nosey Mounties and considered getting out of town. Unfortunately he couldn't get very far on his available funds and, besides, he didn't have any form of ID. He wouldn't be able to access his pension, such as it was, if he left the vicinity of the branch that he had been banking at since before...well, since before.

Finally he did the only thing he could do. He went on the offensive.

It only took a few minutes to find out where the Mountie lived, and Ray found himself standing in front of 221 West Racine before he had even managed to come up with what to say. Not that that had ever stopped him before. Ray shrugged, jerked open the door and headed to the third floor, where he pounded on the door to 3J.

The moment the Mountie opened the door, Ray blurted out, "You have to stop."

"Stop what, Detective Kowalski?" the Mountie asked, sounding honestly confused.

Ray winced. "Don't call me that," he said flatly. "I'm not a detective no more."

"All right then. Mr. Kowalski."

Ray scowled. "That's my dad."

"Ah. Stanley, then?"

"Ray!" Ray snapped. "Call me Ray."

The Mountie abruptly paled. Ray frowned. Maybe the guy had low blood sugar or something.

In the subsequent silence Ray noticed that the Mountie wasn't wearing his uniform today. He was less intimidating in flannel and jeans, and some of Ray's belligerence faded away. "Hey," he said gruffly, once it was obvious the Mountie wasn't going to say anything. "You okay?"

"Yes," the Mountie said, sounding anything but. "I apologize for my behavior. You, ah, startled me."

"Right," Ray said dubiously. "Maybe you should sit down or something."

"I believe that would be a good idea." The Mountie went back into his apartment, and after a second Ray followed. As the Mountie sat down in one of the three chairs (two cheap folding chairs and one understuffed armchair) in the place, Ray looked around curiously.

It was bare. Very, very bare. A folding table between the two folding chairs, a narrow cot, and a tiny refrigerator and stove, both of which looked older than Ray. Plus a lamp. "You live here long?" Ray asked.

"Three years," the Mountie answered.

Ray shot a pointed glance around the room, but didn't make a remark. They weren't friends and, anyway, this was a business trip. "Look, you've got to stop trying to find me."

"I no longer need to look for you, Ray," the Mountie said in a highly patronizing voice. "You're here."

Ray's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, and I'm leaving. Have a nice life. Try to avoid getting shot."

He didn't even make it to the door before he felt a hand on his shoulder. Ray spun away and brought up his fists and the Mountie backed away, holding his hands up in placation. "I'm not going to hurt you, Ray," he said soothingly.

"Don't touch me," Ray snarled back, hoping his anger covered up the panic in his voice.

"I'm sorry," the Mountie answered, and it sounded like he meant it. Ray let his fists lower a fraction of an inch. "I won't do it again," he added.

"I know you won't, because you're not going to see me again, right?" the Mountie hesitated and Ray forcibly restrained his urge to kick him in the head. "_Right_?"

The Mountie sighed. "I'm sorry, Ray. I just don't think I can make that promise."

Ray's fists lifted again. "You come near me again and I'll kick you in the head."

And, for no good reason at all, the Mountie _smiled_. "Yes, I've heard that's one of your favorite aphorisms."

"Hey!" Ray shouted. "That's not an aphor-whatsit! I swear I'll kick you in the head." The Mountie didn't look convinced, so Ray added, "You don't believe me? I've done it before and I can do it again."

The Mountie frowned. "Ray, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Keep looking for me and you're going to get me killed," Ray said bitterly and this time he left fast enough that the Mountie didn't have a chance to stop him.

ooo

A knock woke Ray the next morning. He stared at the door in disbelief before carefully lifting the blinds up an inch to reveal a startling flash of red. Ray sighed. "Go away," he shouted through the door.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," the Mountie called back. "Not until I've had a chance to apologize."

Ray swore under his breath, unlocked and opened the door, jerked the Mountie in by his ridiculous red coat, and slammed the door shut again. "Okay, you're here. Apologize, or whatever it is you have to do, and get out."

The Mountie nodded sharply as his hands went behind his back and his spine straightened into parade rest. "Thank you, Ray. First of all, I must remedy an egregious lapse of etiquette. Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, at your service." He did a strange little bow with just his head, and then held out his hand.

Bemused, Ray shook it. "I know who you are, Fraser," he said dryly. "I found you, remember?"

"Indeed you did," Fraser said, sounding pleased for some reason. "However, I find that many people I've encountered on the street tend to refer to me as the Mountie, which is a little misleading as--"

"People you meet on the street," Ray said. "Is that a polite way of saying bums?"

Fraser flushed. "Ah, I would not use precisely that wording--"

"Which means yes." Ray rolled his eyes. "Relax, Fraser, it's not like I haven't noticed that I'm homeless."

Fraser looked around Ray's current shelter. "These accommodations seem comfortable," he offered.

"They're not bad," Ray answered. "I figure I got another day before they come through and roust everyone."

"Oh," Fraser said. He took off his hat and started turning it in his hands, looking uncomfortable. "I was thinking that perhaps you might consider staying with me for a while. If you wanted to."

Ray stared at him incredulously. "I'm not a stray dog, Fraser."

"I'm aware of that," Fraser snapped, surprising the hell out of Ray. He hadn't known that the Mountie could lose his temper. It was just for a second, however, and then Fraser was back to blustering. "In point of fact, I would not bring home a stray dog because Deifenbaker -- that's besides the point. I am making an offer of hospitality to you, Ray Kowalski, a human, and a good man who saved my life."

"Is that what this is about?" Ray asked. "'Cause, really, you shouldn't be thanking me for that. I've been kicking myself about it ever since it happened."

"Still," Fraser said stubbornly. "You did save me and, in many cultures, that would mean that my life is yours to do with as you wish."

Ray snorted out a laugh. "I wouldn't have taken you for a kung fu movie kind of guy," Ray said. Fraser looked confused. "You know, because the samurai always says that to the-- never mind. The point is, this isn't a fucking Chinese kung fu samurai movie. This is America. A guy saves your life, you give him a hundred bucks and go your separate ways."

Fraser blinked. "You want me to give you a hundred dollars?" he asked, reaching into the headband of his hat.

Ray rolled his eyes. "No, you freak. All I want is for you to leave me alone."

Fraser twisted his hat uncertainly.

"_Fraser_," Ray snapped. "I swear, there has to be some kind of etiquette rule for not staying after you've been asked to leave." He jerked the door open. "_Out_."

After another long hesitation, Fraser finally sighed and left.

ooo

Two days after Fraser's meeting with Ray, he received another call from Welsh. He hurried to the precinct, feeling a distinct sense of deja vu as he entered the bullpen for the first time in weeks. He nodded at Huey (who nodded back) and at Dewey (who didn't) and headed directly toward Lt. Welsh's office.

Welsh opened his door the moment Fraser knocked. "Not now," he said sounding more harried than usual. Over Welsh's shoulder, Fraser could see FBI Agents Deeter and Ford arguing with a lovely woman with short platinum blonde hair and extremely tight-fitting clothing. It sounded like they were discussing the theft of some very valuable gemstones.

"Of course, sir, I can see that you're busy." Fraser opened his mouth, then closed it again. Lt. Welsh really did look busy.

Welsh sighed. "What is it, Constable?"

"Well, sir, it's just that Ray has already been in police custody for some time now, and, while the holding cell's accommodations are perfectly adequate for--"

The shouting from Welsh's office suddenly tripled in volume. Welsh winced. "Tell you what, Fraser. Why don't you go down and keep Kowalski company while I take care of this little mess. I'll come down as soon as I can."

"Thank you, sir," Fraser said with considerable relief. Welsh waved him off distractedly. Fraser offered a polite nod to the two agents, who ignored him completely, and left.

Five minutes later, he was down in holding, searching the cells for Ray Kowalski.

"You _son_ of a _bitch_!"

Ah, there he was, and clearly in a foul temper. "Now, Ray, there's no need for such lan--"

"You got me arrested!"

"I did not," Fraser answered, which was technically true. All Fraser had done was report the consumption of an illegal substance taking place on public school grounds, and it was not as if he had had any choice in the matter. The fact that the school was no longer open did not in any way impact the land's drug free zone status. Still, further debate on this subject would likely lead to some uncomfortable questions, so Fraser quickly changed the subject. "Lieutenant Welsh will be down shortly to release you."

Ray groaned. "You're _trying_ to get me killed, aren't you?"

"Of course not, Ray," Fraser said, with some irritation. Then he noticed that the other prisoners were intently focused on Ray. "Oh, dear."

Ray's jaw dropped. "Oh, dear? _Oh, dear_? Fuck your 'dear', Fraser, and call the fucking guard!"

Fraser winced internally at Ray's language, but shouted for the guard. Welsh got there first, most likely because he was actually running, while the guard's gait could more accurately be described as a saunter. By the time Ray was safely outside the cell, blood had been spilled, surprisingly little of it coming from Ray. The man was probably hungover and undoubtedly undernourished, but he knew how to handle himself in a fight.

"Christ, Kowalski," Welsh said as the guard got the cell door shut. "I see you're still a troublemaker."

"Don't look at me," Ray said defensively. "The Mountie started it."

"Now that I can believe," Welsh said, shaking his head at Fraser. "Come on, let's get the ball rolling on your release paperwork."

Ray crossed his arms. "Is _he_ coming along?" he asked, jerking his head at Fraser.

"You're being released into his custody," Welsh answered, before Fraser could say anything.

Ray glared at Fraser, then glanced at the cell full of hostile prisoners. "This sucks," he said flatly.

Welsh tried a smile; even Fraser had to admit it wasn't particularly comforting. "Don't worry," Welsh said. "He grows on you."

"I'll bet," Ray muttered, loudly enough for Fraser to hear him. "Like mold."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow and followed Ray and Lt. Welsh down the hall. The next few days were going to be...difficult, that was clear. On the bright side, at least they wouldn't be boring.

ooo

They stopped at the school on the way to Fraser's apartment and Ray found himself stuck with a big red shadow as he went to his latest locker to collect his stuff.

Which was gone.

Fuck.

Ray stared at the empty locker for a minute before slamming the door shut and proceeding to kick the shit out of it. He was just getting into a good groove, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard an increasingly insistent voice in his ear, "Ray, _Ray_, RAY!"

"What?" Ray shouted back, spinning away from Fraser's hand.

Fraser stood there with his hand raised for a moment, before dropping it to his side. "I'm sorry, Ray, but you really aren't adequately shod for your current activity and I was afraid you might injure yourself."

Ray glanced down at the ratty Converse sneakers he'd dug out of a dumpster on Main a few weeks before and spared a moment to once again bemoan the loss of the biker boots he'd worn in his previous life. He'd taken shit for them from his Lieu, but they'd been worth it for their steel toes. He could have kicked a locker all day in those beauties. As it was, his feet were aching and if the Mountie hadn't stopped him, Ray could easily have broken a toe. "Yeah, right," he answered gruffly. "Uh, thanks."

Fraser _beamed_, there was no other word for it. "You're most welcome, Ray."

Ray closed his eyes. There was no way a man should look so happy about being thanked, it just wasn't possible. "God, I need a drink."

"Ray," Fraser started to say in a highly disapproving tone, and Ray's eyes snapped open. Fuck that. He'd had enough of disapproving from...he'd just had enough.

"Look, Fraser, I appreciate everything you've done for me, but I think it's time we went our separate ways."

Fraser's face tightened for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Ray to wonder about it before Fraser's features smoothed out. "I'm sorry, Ray, but I'm afraid that's not possible."

Ray sighed. This was it, this right here, was why people did not get involved with the Mountie. "Why not?" he asked, trying for belligerent, but knowing that he probably just sounded tired. It'd been hours since his last drink, long, miserable hours, and right now the last thing he wanted to do was deal with a stubborn Canadian.

"Lieutenant Welsh remanded you into my custody until your hearing," Fraser said, his hands tucked neatly behind his back in textbook-perfect parade rest. "As you lack an address or any contact information, I'm afraid that it would be irresponsible of me not to see to your accommodations."

Oh, no. Ray did not like the sound of that. "And where, exactly, would these _accommodations_ be?"

Fraser scratched his eyebrow. "Well, you'll be staying with me."

Ray could grow to hate this man, he really could. "I don't think so."

"Well, I'm very sorry, Ray, but I'm afraid that you don't have a choice."

"_Fuck_!" Ray shouted. He resumed kicking the shit out of the lockers. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"Ray, I really wish you would moderate your language," Fraser said primly. "Profanity seldom, if ever, improves a situation."

Ray spun around and got up in the Mountie's face. "Fuck," he said, slowly and clearly.

Fraser winced, but didn't say anything.

Unfortunately, that wasn't nearly as satisfying as Ray had hoped, and suddenly he was out of anger and energy. "All right," he said. "Let's go to your place."

Fraser brightened noticeably. "Of course, Ray. We just have to stop by the consulate to pick up Diefenbaker."

"Diefenbaker?" Ray repeated, following Fraser down the hallway with an exaggerated sigh.

"My wolf. Well, not 'mine' precisely, as -- that's not important. Don't worry, though, he's friendly."

Ray wasn't worried; he'd heard about the wolf. At least someone in the apartment would have a bigger sweet tooth than Ray. "How far is it to the Consulate?"

"Just a few miles," Fraser said cheerfully.

Ray stopped. "A _few_?"

"No more than four," Fraser answered, as if that answer was even the slightest bit reasonable.

Ray stared. "Uh, Fraser, not to burst your bubble or anything, but I'm not going to make four miles. I'll be lucky if I manage one after trekking out here from the station."

"Well then, we can take a taxi," Fraser said.

"A _taxi_?" Ray repeated. He seemed to do that a lot around the Mountie. "You mean you had money for a taxi all this time and you didn't use it?"

"I thought you might enjoy a walk after being in a cell all day," Fraser answered, looking utterly sincere.

Ray gaped. "You're a freak, Fraser, you know that? A _freak_."

"Understood. Shall we?" Fraser gestured for Ray to take the lead down the hall.

Ray shook his head, but started walking. He'd been right earlier. This day was gonna _suck_.

ooo

Ray'd seen the apartment before, of course, but he'd kind of been distracted at the time and, anyway, he hadn't expected to be _living_ in it any time soon. On second viewing it wasn't as bad as he had remembered. The two rooms were large (and made larger by a distinct shortage of furniture), and had hardwood floors and lots of windows. Not a bad place to dance, really, but Ray hadn't been dancing in years. Two very long, very painful years.

Ray had lived in worse. Much worse.

It occurred to Ray that he didn't see any doors aside from the front door. "Where's the john?"

"Just down the hall," Fraser said brightly. "Mr. Johnson just put in a shower, so we're now equipped with all of the modern conveniences."

"Down the hall?" Ray said. "You mean you gotta share?"

"Well, just with this floor."

Okay, so Ray'd lived in better places than this, too, but wasn't like he could run away. The Mountie would just find him again. "I gotta use the can," Ray announced, for lack of anything better to do. Maybe he'd get lucky and find a way to drown himself in the sink.

"Of course, Ray," Fraser said, stepping aside so Ray could get to the door.

Ray was halfway down the hall when he realized that the Mountie was following him. "You aren't coming in with me, are you?" Ray snapped.

"No, of course not," Fraser said. "I, er, I have to use the facilities as well."

Ray snorted. "You're a shitty liar, Fraser."

Fraser grimaced. "Understood."

In the end they compromised on Diefenbaker playing guard duty, and Ray did his business. The bathroom was a real pit and Ray found himself thinking longingly of the good old days when he had an entire school locker room to himself. The new shower was the nicest thing in the room, and it was the size of a narrow refrigerator and already starting to mildew around the edges. Ray sniffed it and decided to do his bathing in Fraser's kitchen sink.

Hm. Not a bad thought. If he couldn't get Fraser to let him leave, maybe Ray could get himself kicked out.

Ray was still working on the details of that plan when he stepped back into the apartment to find Fraser laying a nice-looking sleeping bag on the floor. He blinked. "Fraser, what are you doing?"

"Preparing the bedroll," Fraser answered, clambering to his feet far more gracefully than should be possible while wearing those boots. He'd taken off his tunic and his hat at some point, and he looked smaller in his suspenders. More human.

Ray shifted his eyes away. "It's not even nine," he pointed out.

"I know," Fraser said with a shrug. Damn, without the uniform he even _acted_ more human. "I just didn't want to start dinner until you returned."

Dinner. Ray's stomach roiled. "I'm not really hungry."

Fraser frowned. "When was the last time you ate?"

Ray crossed his arms defensively. "Not that long ago." The Mountie didn't look convinced, so Ray lied, "Breakfast, okay. I had a big breakfast."

"That was hours ago," Fraser said stubbornly. "You need to eat, Ray."

Oh, hell. "Fine," Ray snapped. "But don't expect me to help."

Dinner turned out to be spaghetti and Ray wasn't sure how it happened, but somehow he ended up setting the table while Fraser fiddled around with pots on the foul-smelling stove. At least Ray hoped the smells were coming from the stove.

The food was...well, it was edible, as long as you didn't think about it too hard. "How is it?" Fraser asked after Ray had taken a couple of bites and he looked so hopeful that Ray sighed, gave up his plan to get himself kicked out, and lied through his teeth. "It's good, Fraser."

Fraser smiled and Ray's gut twisted. No matter how much alcohol ramped up his libido, it gave him limp dick, and he hadn't done much but drink for the last couple of years. Now, thanks to the Mountie, Ray was going through a stretch of enforced sobriety, and his cock was informing him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't cut out for celibacy.

Hm. Maybe there was another way to get himself kicked out. And even if Fraser was more flexible than anyone thought him to be and didn't immediately toss Ray out on his ass, Ray wouldn't mind having a chance to find out if he could pop a woody over a guy other than Steve McQueen. Hell, Ray was already halfway there, and all Fraser had done was smile at him.

With that in mind, Ray choked down a couple more bites of the mushy pasta, then put his plate down on the floor. Any protest Fraser might have made was overridden by the clatter of nails on the floor as the wolf jumped up and ran over to shove his face in the food. "Geez," Ray said. "Don't you feed him?"

"Diefenbaker's dietary needs are quite adequately met with his kibble," Fraser said sternly, staring at his wolf.

"Kibble? No wonder he begs for people food."

"Don't encourage him. I assure you he has no scruples about taking advantage of the kindness of strangers."

"We're not exactly strangers anymore," Ray pointed out.

For some reason the Mountie smiled real big at that. "That's true, Ray."

Ray's eyes narrowed, but Fraser looked perfectly sincere, so Ray put the strange happiness aside and went to the next step of Mission: Seduce the Mountie. "So, uh, I think I'm gonna hit the sack."

Fraser's smile dimmed a little. "Of course. I took the liberty of purchasing a few toiletries for you. They're in the bag next to the bed."

For a moment Ray didn't know whether to be outraged or touched by the gesture, and in the end he just nodded brusquely and shoved himself back from the table. The bag was sitting on the nightstand and contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, shaving cream, a pack of disposable razors, and a comb. Ray swallowed a few times to try and get rid of the large lump in his throat, but his voice was still thin with emotion when he managed to say, "Thanks, Fraser. You, uh, you didn't hafta do this."

"It was my pleasure, Ray," Fraser said, and it sounded like he meant it.

Ray just nodded again and fled to the bathroom.

He stepped out again nearly an hour later, freshly shaved and scrubbed from head to toe. He'd forgotten to ask about towels before he'd gone in, so he was currently wearing the same clothes he'd worn every day for the last few weeks. The fact that they were now damp made them smell even worse. Maybe Fraser would let him borrow some sweats. Oh, who was he kidding? Fraser would love to let him borrow some sweats. Hell, the man would probably have an orgasm if Ray went so far as to ask for actual shoes. Ray'd never met a man more determined to be taken advantage of.

Ray was almost to the apartment door when he realized that Diefenbaker had apparently given up on playing guard dog, seeing as the mutt was nowhere in sight. He considered running away for half a second before reality sank in and he opened the door with a sigh.

Aside from the bedside lamp, the apartment was dark, and Ray tiptoed his way over to the bed. Which was, unfortunately, entire free of Mounties, though it did have a neatly folded pair of boxers and a tee shirt. Ray snagged the clothes and went into the kitchen to get dressed, dumping his own nasty rags in a distant corner near the window. Fraser's clothing was too big for Ray, of course, but they were clean and sweet-smelling. Ray tried not to think about the fact that the boxers were starched and ironed.

Still damp, but no longer dripping, Ray went back into the bedroom. As he suspected, he found Fraser stretched out on the fancy sleeping bag, wearing bright red thermal underwear and looking for all the world like he was already asleep. Ray smirked and murmured, "Fraser."

Fraser immediately bolted upright. "Yes, Ray?"

Ray crossed his arms and tried to look belligerent, which wasn't easy when you were talking to a guy in long johns. "What are you doing down there?" he hissed.

Fraser looked down at his bedroll and then back up. "Sleeping," he said tentatively. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Wow, you didn't get openings like that every day. "Yeah," Ray answered huskily. "You can get on the bed."

Fraser's eyes widened and Ray couldn't be sure cause of the dim light, but it certainly looked like Fraser's cheeks were red. "Oh, no, I couldn't," Fraser said. "You're the guest."

Ray blinked; he'd been so focused on getting into Fraser's pants (no, no, getting _kicked_ _out_, that's why he was doing this. Really.), that it took a second for the meaning of Fraser's words to sink in. "Fraser, I'm not kicking you out of your own bed."

"Well, of course not, Ray. I'm offering it to you."

"Well I'm not taking it. Get on the bed."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!"

"No."

"Fine!" Ray shouted, grabbing a handful of blankets and dragging them off of the bed and onto the floor.

"Ray?"

"What?" Ray snapped, snatching the pillow and tossing it onto the pile of bedding.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, Fraser?" Ray flopped down on blankets and started twisting around, trying to find a comfortable position.

"It looks like you're sleeping on the floor," Fraser answered.

Ray grunted and punched his pillow.

"But, Ray, it's silly for both of us to sleep on the floor when there is a perfectly good bed."

"You're right," Ray said. "So why don't you stop talking and get into bed."

"Ray--"

"Look, Fraser, you can't out-stubborn me, so don't even try. The only way I'm sleeping in that bed is if you're sleeping there with me."

No denying it this time, Fraser's face was as red as a beet. "That, that doesn't sound very comfortable."

Ray thought about making a suggestive remark, but it was rapidly becoming obvious that as much as he'd sucked at seducing women, he sucked even more at seducing men. "Shut up, Fraser," he said instead. "Go to sleep."

There was an ominous pause that Ray was sure was the start of another argument, but when Fraser finally answered all he said was, "Good night, Ray."

Ray smiled, and it was only a little bitter. "Good night, Fraser."

ooo

The ruddy light of early dawn was brushing the ceiling when Fraser woke and he lay quietly for a minute, enjoying the vibrant colors and the exotic thrill of anticipation shivering through his bloodstream. He wasn't entirely sure what he was anticipating, but for now it was enough to feel that something good was going to happen today.

Then he turned over and saw the blond hair sticking out of the pile of blankets next to him and suddenly he remembered the origins of his unusually good mood. Stanley Raymond Kowalski, ex-cop, widower, and now Fraser's roommate. Fraser had never had a roommate; he was looking forward to the new experience.

Ray shifted slightly under his blankets and Fraser shook his head. Now was not the time for lollygagging. Rolling quickly out of bed, he began his chores.

By the time Fraser had bathed, dressed, put away his bedding, fed Diefenbaker, and run Ray's clothes down to the laundromat on the corner, the sun had fully cleared the horizon and the city had begun to awake en masse. Ray, however, continued to be oblivious to the world. Fraser frowned slightly at the bundle of blankets. Perhaps some tea would help wake him. Or, no. Coffee. No matter how strange it seemed to Fraser, Americans as a whole preferred coffee. He himself only drank it of necessity or to be polite.

Of course, Fraser didn't have coffee. Nor, when he checked his supplies, did he have cream or sugar, eggs, bread, or anything else perishable. He hadn't been eating well since coming to Chicago and finding Ray gone; most nights he was lucky if he animated himself enough to open a can of beans for dinner.

Well no more. Ray was clearly in need of nutritious food, and while oatmeal and beans were adequate sustenance for a healthy, well-nourished person, they were simply not acceptable for someone on the verge of starvation. Straightening his shoulders, Fraser nodded sharply to himself, grabbed his hat, and marched out the door.

An hour later he came back laden with groceries and Ray's now-clean, though apparently permanently stained, clothing. Ray himself was still buried in bed, and Fraser debated letting the man get the sleep he so obviously needed. Unfortunately, Fraser was expected at the consulate in a little over an hour, and he couldn't leave Ray alone. Not just yet. However, he was fairly sure he'd seen a cot in one of the new Consulate's closets. Perhaps Ray could take a nap there.

Plugging in his brand-new coffee maker, Fraser set about making a hearty breakfast with far more enthusiasm than usual. For the first time in weeks he was hungry. Starving, even. Strange.

ooo

Ray woke up covered in shadow, a warm hand gripping his shoulder and shaking him gently. He breathed in sharply and jerked back from the dark, hulking body that loomed overhead and then froze. Was that coffee? And _bacon_? What--

The body moved back a couple of steps and suddenly it was human-sized and red-colored. Fraser. "Ray, are you all right?"

Ray blinked a couple of times, then roughly rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, sorry." He sniffed again. "Is that coffee?" he asked hopefully.

Fraser brightened a little, though it couldn't quite cover up his worry. "Yes, I thought you might prefer that to tea."

Tea? Ick. "Good thinking, Fraser." Ray groaned and flopped over onto his stomach before shoving himself up onto his hands and knees. His head wasn't the only thing pounding this morning, and he knew if he looked he'd find himself covered with bruises. He wasn't bad in a ring, but there's not much you can do when it's seven to one and you're backed up against a cell door. Hopefully Welsh talked to the guards, because Ray's cover as a nobody was well and truly blown. If he got arrested again, he wouldn't live long enough for Fraser to bail him out.

Fuck. Fuckity-fuck fuck fuck.

Ray sighed and forced himself onto his feet. No point in bitching about it any more. He'd fucked up and now he was screwed, but at least there was coffee to drink and food on the table that looked somewhat appetizing. Which was a good thing, because for the first time in months, Ray was kinda hungry.

No chocolate for the coffee, of course, but Ray dumped in a mountain of sugar and half a cup of cream and it was heaven that only got better when he sat down to a plate of bacon and eggs and -- oh, god, Ray was in _love_ -- pancakes. There was a bottle of real maple syrup on the table and Ray drenched his entire plate with the stuff before digging in.

He managed half of it before his stomach started protesting and as good as the food was he didn't want to throw it back up, so Ray reluctantly pushed the plate forward. "I'm stuffed," he announced. "Want the rest?"

Fraser looked askance at the lake of syrup dotted with islands of food. "Perhaps Diefenbaker?"

Ray grinned and set the plate on the floor, where it was immediately set upon by a ravenous wolf. Oh yeah. At least someone in this apartment had taste.

Fraser was still eating, so Ray tapped his fingers on the table, trying to ignore the fact that his food wasn't exactly settling down in his stomach and wondering what he was supposed to do now. Normally by this point in the day he was already either drinking or hunting down his next drink. No doubt Fraser would have something to say about that. Ray sighed, and focused on his tapping.

He was just starting to get into it when he caught Fraser eyeing him. Ray snatched his hands back and cleared his throat. "So, uh. I could take Dief for a walk, if you want." Belatedly he remembered the state of his clothes, but hell, the wolf wouldn't care, and they could only benefit from getting some air. Besides, Ray's muscles were starting to cramp up, probably from all the bruising, and they needed to be stretched a bit

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "Thank you kindly for the offer, Ray, but I'm afraid we don't have the time. I am expected at the Consulate at nine."

Ray waited for Fraser to add something to make that sentence make sense, but the Mountie apparently thought he'd said all he had to. Fortunately, Ray had a flash of understanding. "Oh, okay. I get it."

Fraser frowned. "Get what?"

"You don't trust me with him," Ray answered, covering the hurt with a shrug. "I don't blame you. Hell, I wouldn't trust me with him either."

"But that's simply not true," Fraser said, sounding sincerely distressed.

Now it was Ray's turn to frown. "Well, then, what's the problem? I can drop him back off at the consulate if you've got to go right away."

Fraser nodded slowly. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding, Ray. You're coming to the consulate with me."

Ray repeated Fraser's last sentence numbly. He couldn't have heard that right. He _couldn't_ have.

"Yes, Ray," Fraser answered. "Well, you and Diefenbaker. He gets into trouble when I leave him at home. As a matter of fact, the last time he managed to get himself arrested. It's an interesting story--"

"I'm not coming to work with you, Fraser." Ray crossed his arms stubbornly.

Fraser didn't cross his arms, but then he didn't have to: the mulish set of his jaw said it all. "I'm sure that, as a former officer of the law, you don't need me to explain what it means for you to have been released into my custody. You already know that it means that I am responsible for anything you do until your court date."

Ray's eyes narrowed. "You don't trust me," he accused, surprised at how much that hurt. After all, why should Fraser trust him?

And yet, it still stung when Fraser shot back, "As you've pointed out yourself, I just met you, and I did find you illegally occupying city property, so intoxicated that you were flirting with unconsciousness."

Ray flinched. "Low blow, Fraser. 'Specially for a Mountie."

Fraser's shoulder's drooped a fraction. "I'm very sorry, Ray."

Ray shrugged, tried to make it casual. "Why? It's the truth."

"Yes, but it's also true that you haven't tried to run away from me since you were released," Fraser answered, and Ray's lips twisted in something resembling a smirk, but he didn't say anything.

They were silent for a few minutes, Ray trying to ignore a freaking mountain of complaints from various parts of his body, until Fraser announced, "We have to leave now, or we'll be late."

Ray considered his borrowed tee-shirt and shorts before reluctantly looking over at the corner with his shitty clothes. Except the corner was empty. Ray's head snapped back around to look at Fraser. Had the smell been so bad the Mountie just threw the clothes away? "Fraser, where are my clothes?"

Fraser's eyebrows creased for just a moment before they smoothed out. "Ah, I forgot to mention that I took the liberty of laundering them, Ray. They're on the bed."

A strange lump in his chest, Ray went over to the bed. Sure enough, there on top of the perfectly made bed -- when had Fraser had time to do that? Ray had only been in the john for a couple of minutes -- were his clothes, neatly folded and clean-smelling. With a shaking hand, Ray lifted the shirt to his nose and breathed deeply. His eyes stung. It'd been a long time since he smelled anything that wonderful.

"I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to iron it," Fraser said from behind him, and Ray quickly lowered the shirt, feeling stupid.

"It's fine, Fraser. Greatness."

"Well, good," Fraser said, sounding confused. Ray didn't turn around to see, though; he wasn't quite ready to face the Mountie. "I'll let you get dressed," Fraser added after a second. "We should leave soon."

"Yeah, sure," Ray said, still clutching the shirt in a desperate grip. He waited till he heard retreating footsteps before reaching out for the rest of the clothes. His hands were still shaking, he noticed. Maybe it was a good thing he was off the booze for a while; apparently he was just a few drinks away from serious DTs.

ooo

As it turned out, the Canadian Consulate was on the other side of the freaking city, and they weren't even halfway there when Ray forced Fraser to flag down a cab. Not that he would have been up for a four mile walk in the best of condition, but the unaccustomed exercise was making the food roil even more in Ray's stomach and he was starting to regret having had such a big breakfast. It didn't help that he was still exhausted; he'd spent most of the night tossing and turning on the hard floor and it was only near dawn that he'd finally managed to fall asleep.

"I'm sorry," Fraser said for the eighth time as they pulled up in front of a brick building guarded by wrought iron gates. "My apartment is only a five minute walk from the old Consulate," he explained apologetically, completely ignoring Ray's rolling eyes.

"It's _okay_," Ray said, also for the eighth time, as Fraser let Diefenbaker out and paid the driver. "But, you know, you might think about getting a car."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow.

Ray's eyes narrowed. "Do you _have_ a car?"

"Technically--"

"Don't give me 'technically', Fraser! Do you have a car?"

Fraser sighed. "Yes. But only temporarily." Ray stared at him until he explained, "It's Ray's."

"Ray Vecchio's?" Fraser nodded. "I thought you said he was in New York City." Fraser winced, and nodded again. "Why didn't he take it with him?"

"Ah," Fraser said. "I can't say." He turned and quickly entered the building. If it had been anyone but the Mountie, Ray would have thought he was running away.

Considering Ray could think of three good reasons not to bring a car to NYC just off the top of his head, he decided that Fraser really was running. The question was, why? What had gone on between him and Vecchio that made Fraser act like a freak any time someone said Vecchio's name?

Oh. Oh, shit. It couldn't be, and yet--

Ray turned over the idea in his head as Fraser dealt with a ditzy giant in a red uniform, and by the time he'd followed Fraser to his office, Ray had just about convinced himself. It would explain a lot, after all: he'd always heard that the Mountie and Vecchio were inseparable, and Fraser's behavior was a lot like a man who'd gotten dumped. He wasn't acting as badly as Ray had, of course, but then you had to be really fucked in the head to get as bad as Ray.

Ray was riding so high on his theory that he barely waited for Fraser to close the door before blurting out, "You were fucking him, weren't you?"

Fraser's eyes widened comically. "Turnbull?"

Ray frowned. "What? No! Vecchio. You were fucking Vecchio, weren't you?"

The eyes stayed wide, and Fraser flushed as red as his uniform. "No," he said in a strangled voice, before clearing his throat and trying again. "No. Ray Vecchio is my friend, my best friend, but we were not...intimate in that way."

"Hm," Ray said, eyeing the Mountie suspiciously, but he seemed to be telling the truth. "What's a Turnbull?" he asked abruptly, before things could get too awkward. "Some funky Canadian word for fucking?" Which, when you said the word a few times, kinda sounded like it made sense.

Ray hadn't thought it possible, but Fraser turned even _redder_. God_damn_, the man was nearly _purple_. "Turnbull is a coworker," Fraser said, sounding like he was choking. Hell, maybe he was, considering the way he was pulling on his collar. "He's the officer you met in the foyer."

Oh. Well, that hadn't made anything less awkward, and Ray was starting to feel even crappier than he had earlier: his hands were getting clammy, his headache was reaching migraine levels, and he kind of thought he should sit down before he fell down. Leaning heavily on Fraser's freakishly neat desk, Ray asked, "You got a couch around here or something? I think I need to lie down."

Fraser looked relieved at the change in subject. "I believe I can do better than a couch, Ray. There is a cot in the hall closet. If you would like to take a seat, I'll get it ready for you."

Ray thought about protesting that he could help, but honestly he wasn't sure if he could. It'd been a long time since he'd gotten sick -- a miracle, considering the way he'd lived for the last couple of years -- but it felt like he was coming down with the flu. Which was a shitty way to pay back Fraser for taking him in, but (Ray reminded himself firmly) he hadn't _asked_ to be taken in and if Fraser got sick after taking Ray hostage then the Mountie could just lump it.

Except that when Fraser came back carrying a small cot and a pile of bedding, Ray kept his mouth covered and made sure the Mountie didn't get close enough to pick up any germs. Well, hell. The Mountie was a nice guy, even if he was bossy and self-righteous. He didn't deserve to get sick.

Ray's body apparently wasn't impressed by that reasoning, because his stomach lurched dangerously and he just managed to bend over in time to spew into Fraser's trash can. Fraser, who had just snapped a sheet out over the cot, dropped the bedding and spun around to grip Ray's shoulder, supporting him as he emptied his stomach and through the painful dry heaves that followed.

When Ray was absolutely sure he was done, he straightened carefully and wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand, keeping his other arm curled protectively around his sore belly. "Sorry, Fraser," he rasped, leaning back against the desk as he was hit with a wave of dizziness. "I think I've got the flu." Though it'd never hit him so _fast_ before.

"Hm," Fraser said, looking grim. "Do you think you'll be okay for a moment while I ready your bed?"

"Yeah, sure," Ray said, barely registering the words as he was hit with a nasty case of the shakes. Christ, he felt awful, way worse than the last time he had the flu.

He must have lost a few minutes then, because between one blink and another Fraser had made up the cot and was now holding Ray's arm, gently pushing him towards the bed. Ray stumbled along willingly and collapsed with a groan. When the blackness rose up, he sank under it gratefully.

ooo

Ray passed out a moment after Fraser got him into the cot, still wearing his coat and shoes, and in an inexcusable lapse rationality, Fraser spent nearly a minute dithering over whether or not he had the right to touch Ray before finally removing Ray's outer garments and tucking him under a blanket.

Once he had made Ray as comfortable as he could -- and still chastising himself for behaving like a child, or Turnbull -- Fraser dropped into his chair and considered his current situation.

Said situation did not look very promising and Fraser berated himself for not foreseeing this complication. The fact that relatively few alcoholics experienced withdrawal was no excuse; Ray's malnutrition and poor psychological health were both high risk factors that he should have taken under consideration.

However, blaming himself did not alter the fact that Ray was clearly caught in the throes of alcohol withdrawal, a potentially life-threatening condition. Unfortunately Ray was also undoubtedly uninsured and Fraser had seen first-hand how American hospitals treated patients who could not afford to pay. The prospect of Ray languishing for hours in an overcrowded emergency room was an appalling one, and there was no guarantee that it would accomplish anything other than to confirm what Fraser already knew.

Besides, there wasn't much left to be done at this point except to wait it out; unfortunately that was something that clearly could not happen at the consulate and the likelihood of finding a cab driver willing to transport Ray in his current condition was very small, which meant Fraser was in need of transportation. Which meant calling in a favor from a man who had already given Fraser so much support already.

Stifling a sigh, Fraser picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

By the time Lieutenant Welsh arrived at the consulate two hours later, Fraser had made arrangements for a week of leave, with the option of an extension if necessary. Fraser had never asked for such open-ended leave before and Inspector Thatcher was very reluctant to acquiesce to the request, at least until Turnbull burst into the office to report that Ray was convulsing. After that, the Inspector was happy to agree to anything that removed Ray from consulate grounds.

Fortunately Ray had not been convulsing, though his shaking had increased to such a degree that Fraser could not blame Turnbull for the mistake. Fraser could only hope that Ray's symptoms did not progress to actual seizures, because then there would be no way to avoid a hospital visit.

The remainder of the time had been spent conducting internet research on alcohol withdrawal. There was a surprising amount of information available and Fraser was reassured to note that as long as Ray did not begin convulsing or turn violent, he could be safely cared for at home.

Between the Lieutenant, Turnbull, and Fraser himself, transferring Ray from the consulate to the car was not difficult. Welsh insisted on accompanying Fraser home and Turnbull tried to insist as well, but at this point the Inspector stepped in, for which Fraser was secretly grateful. The next few days were going to be difficult; having to deal with Turnbull would make them impossible.

By unspoken consensus, Welsh took over driving duties while Fraser watched over Ray from the passenger seat. "You got everything you need?" Welsh asked after several minutes of silence.

"I'm afraid not," Fraser answered, turning around to face forward and pulling a list out of the pouch on his belt. "I hate to ask you for another favor so soon, but--"

"Ask it," Welsh said bluntly. "Once a cop, always a cop, and Kowalski was one of the good guys."

Fraser smiled despite himself. Though Welsh had a tough reputation, the man had a truly kind heart. "Thank you, sir. I have a list here of items I'll need over the next few days. Of course I'll reimburse you for any--"

"Shut up, Constable," Welsh growled.

"Understood, sir."

Once Ray was settled in on Fraser's bed, the Lieutenant went out shopping and Fraser began preparations at home. Thanks to the supplies he had purchased that morning, he was better equipped to take care of an invalid than was his usual wont, but there was still quite a bit to do. He began by placing a basin next to the bed; the next few days were going to be devoted to feeding Ray as many liquids as possible and Fraser had no illusions about the state of Ray's stomach.

Then came the unpleasant task of stripping off Ray's sweat-soaked clothing. Fraser changed his own clothing first, being sure to pick his softest, most worn shirt and jeans. There was a good chance he would have to physically hold Ray over the next few days, and he didn't want to irritate Ray's increasingly sensitive skin.

Once Ray was stripped and tucked in under every blanket in the apartment, Fraser went to the kitchen to mix a rehydration solution of water, sugar, and salt, which would taste terrible but which was nearly as effective as the sports drinks that Lieutenant Welsh would be bringing. Fraser would save the sports drinks for when Ray was awake and better able to keep fluids down.

By the time Welsh walked in carrying several plastic bags, Fraser was in the middle of making a simple vegetable broth, which was considerably more nutritious than beef or chicken broth. The vegetables themselves would end up in Dief's bowl, though Fraser had little hope the recalcitrant animal would actually consent to eat such healthy foods.

"Where do you want them?" Welsh asked as Fraser hurried over to help.

"The table, please," Fraser asked, taking half of the bags and already beginning to search them as Welsh set the remainder down and went back to the car for a second load of supplies.

The first bag proved to be the most important, as it contained chewable vitamins and nutritional supplements. It also contained a small prescription bottle filled with tiny white tablets and a label identifying them as Diazepam. Ray Kowalski's name was also on the label. Fraser frowned. "Sir, what is this?" he asked when Welsh returned, this time carrying a single handful of bags.

"Valium," Welsh answered simply, dropping the bags on the floor, since the table was covered.

"But it's in Ray's name."

Welsh shrugged. "I've got a friend who's a doctor. I gave him a call. He said it's not safe for a long-term alcoholic to go cold turkey and wrote me a prescription for those."

"But he's never even seen Ray," Fraser pointed out, frowning.

Welsh didn't roll his eyes, but it looked like he wanted to. "Kowalski's been drunk for two years, Constable. I'd say that's the definition of a long-term alcoholic."

"I'm not disagreeing with that, sir, but surely it's not legal to prescribe medications without even--"

"Fraser?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Shut up."

Fraser sighed. "Understood."

Welsh glanced at the bed in the other room, but made no movement in that direction. "Is there anything else you need, Constable?"

"No, sir. I just want to thank--" Fraser's voice broke. Appalled, he cleared his throat before continuing, "Thank you for all of your help. You have greatly assisted Ray's chances for recovery."

"Anytime, Constable," Welsh said, clapping Fraser on the shoulder. "And I mean that."

There wasn't much to be said after that. The Lieutenant called a cab and took his leave. Fraser put away the new supplies and finished the broth. (As expected, Diefenbaker turned his nose up at the vegetables.)

Once the broth was stored away and apartment was back in order, Fraser dragged his armchair next to the bed, sat down, and began his vigil.

The next few days were difficult. Ray was rarely able to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, and the sleep he did manage did not appear to be restful. He was also unable to keep down much of the broth or the hydration solution and his repeated regurgitation eventually resulted in a throat so sore that he could barely swallow. Finally Fraser put aside his scruples and gave Ray a dose of the Valium. The four hours of uninterrupted sleep that followed reconciled Fraser to the necessity of continuing to use the medicine, no matter how questionable the origins of the prescription.

Near the end of the second day, Ray woke up looking more alert than he had since the ordeal began and Fraser leaned forward eagerly as Ray glanced around the room, clearly looking for someone or some thing. Ray smiled wide as he caught sight of Fraser. "Stella," Ray breathed.

Fraser's forming smile died on his face. "Ray?"

"I'm right here, Stell," Ray answered, sounding happy and content. "Oh, baby, I missed you so much." And without any warning, Ray reached out, cupped the back of Fraser's neck, and pulled him into a kiss.

For a long moment, Fraser just sat there, stupefied. Before he regained full use of his facilities, Ray leaned back. "Oh, Stella, I--" Suddenly his eyes widened and he threw himself back in the bed. "No! NO!"

Fraser lurched out his chair, then froze, unsure of what he should do. Ray stared at him in horror for another second before closing his eyes and curling up into a fetal position on the bed, anguished sobs wracking the too-thin body. Unable to think of any way to help, Fraser just sat there and watched Ray cry himself to sleep.

When silence reigned once more, Fraser sat back in his seat and thought about what had just happened. Ray had kissed him. _Ray_ had kissed _him_.

Of course, Ray had thought Fraser was his dead ex-wife.

Fraser sighed and delicately traced his lips with his fingers. They still tingled from the kiss.

ooo

Ray woke up feeling like shit. Not only were his joints aching and his head pounding, but he felt as tired as he'd been when he'd passed out in Fraser's office. Ray blamed that last bit on the nightmares; he'd had some pretty fucked-up dreams in his life, but last night took the cake. He wasn't sure which one freaked him out more: the one where he was kissing St... _her_ and she suddenly turned into Fraser, or the one where Ray was watching her face as the skin blackened and flaked away, leaving a burning, grinning skull. He wasn't entirely sure where that last one came from, since they hadn't let him see her after the explosion. Hell, what he heard was there hadn't been enough left to identify her even through dental records; they'd had to use DNA from a hairbrush she'd left at Orsini's house.

That thought made the nausea rise up again and Ray gritted his teeth against the rising bile. Once he'd gotten his gag reflex under control, he frowned. He remembered waking up several times to throw up and Fraser had always been right there waiting with the bucket.

Confused -- but not worried, dammit, he _wasn't_ worried about the Mountie -- Ray looked around the bare room and found Fraser sitting in the shitty armchair, head down, eyes closed, and snoring lightly. Ray scowled. Grown men shouldn't be that cute.

Not much he could do about that cuteness now, though, and right now he had more important things to worry about. Like finding a bathroom, because his bladder was about to burst.

He managed to get one foot out of bed and was just starting to debate his ability to actually stand up when Fraser's voice snapped out, "What do you think you're doing?"

Ray was so startled he fell right back down onto the crappy mattress. "What the fuck, Fraser! Are you trying to scare me to death?"

"Of course not, Ray," Fraser answered, sounding irritatingly calm. He rounded the mattress into Ray's line of sight. "I was simply worried that you might injure yourself by trying to move too quickly. You've been in and out of consciousness for four days."

Ray gaped at him. "Four _days_?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Jesus Christ, what kinda scary-mutant flu did I get?"

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. Ray hated it when he did that. "Actually, I don't believe you had a case of influenza, Ray. Rather you...that is...well..." Fraser took a deep breath and abruptly stood ram-rod straight, like someone had just shoved a poker up his ass. "Ray, based on your symptoms and history, I believe you were suffering from alcohol withdrawal."

Oh. Okay, that made more sense than a fast-acting, alien-mutant flu virus. Didn't explain why Fraser was being such a freak about it, though. "You okay, Fraser?" Ray asked doubtfully.

"Fine, Ray," Fraser answered relaxing just a little. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"Ah. Well, I'm afraid that is to be expected. The worst is past, however, and now we can focus on increasing your body weight."

Ray groaned. "You've been talking to my mum, haven't you?"

"No, Ray." The best (worst?) part of it was, Fraser sounded totally serious.

"I was _kidding_," Ray growled. "Never mind. Listen, I gotta go to the john, so if you could just--" Ray finished the sentence by gesturing for Fraser to back off.

"I doubt you'll be able to make it to the facilities on your own," Fraser said. "However, I do have something you can use." He held up a plastic urinal just like the one Ray had had to use the last time he got shot.

"I don't think so," Ray said flatly.

"Ray--"

"No!" Ray crossed his arms. "You know you aren't going to win this one."

Fraser looked like he wanted to protest, but apparently even the Mountie could be taught. "All right, Ray. If you would feel more comfortable using the WC, then you should do so. But only if you accept my assistance."

Ray wanted to say no, he really did, but he really, really didn't want to fall flat on his face in front of Fraser. "Fine," he muttered. "Help me up."

The entire process was less awkward than it could have been, primarily because Fraser did his part entirely without embarrassment, as if he helped fucked-up alcoholics to the john every day. Then again, maybe he did. Ray couldn't imagine there being much else to do in Butt-Fuck, Canada besides getting shit-faced.

When they got back to the apartment, Fraser led Ray to the table instead of the bed. "I think you'll be able to keep solid food down now," Fraser said. "We'll start with easily digestible items."

Which proved to be applesauce, plain rice, a banana, dry toast, and a bottle of Gatorade. Ray eyed the meal with distaste. "I don't suppose you have any more pancakes left."

"Next time," Fraser promised.

Ray sighed and began to eat. He managed to finish the banana and applesauce, but only about half of the toast and barely touched the rice. He wasn't a big fan of the Gatorade, but considering the other option seemed to be the nasty sugar water shit that Fraser had been shoving down him earlier, Ray just made a face and emptied the bottle.

The entire time Ray was eating, Fraser sat in the opposite chair and watched, and when Ray pushed his chair away from the table, Fraser began to silently clear the dishes. "You always this quiet?" Ray asked.

Fraser looked startled. "No, not usually." He dumped the leftovers in Diefenbaker's bowl. Diefenbaker eyed the mess with distaste before settling down next to Ray's chair with a hopeful look.

Ray snorted. "Sorry, buddy, I ain't got any sugar on me."

Dief whuffed mournfully and rested his head on the floor.

"So what's with the mime routine?" Ray asked when it became apparent that Fraser wasn't planning on explaining any time soon.

"No reason," Fraser said stiffly.

Ray considered that, discarded it as bullshit, and thought about what Fraser must have been up to lately. "When was the last time you got any sleep?"

"I was asleep when you regained consciousness," Fraser said, sounding even more stiff. And, when Ray looked a little closer, he saw that Fraser was blushing, too.

Holy fuck, he was embarrassed. _Embarrassed_. For taking a nap after undoubtedly staying awake for four days. The man was a freak. And possibly deranged.

"Fraser, you need to get some sleep."

"I'm fine, Ray."

_Liar, liar, pants on fire_, Ray thought. Out loud, he said, "Come on, Fraser. If you don't sleep you'll get sick, too." He thought for a second, then added, "And then who would take care of me?"

"That's true, Ray. Perhaps I should get some rest."

Ray grinned at the way Fraser folded like a house of cards under emotional manipulation. The Mountie wouldn't last a minute in a marriage.

Though, come to think of it, sleep was starting to sound pretty damn good. Apparently Ray's body wasn't quite up to digesting baby food and staying awake at the same time. "Good idea," he said to Fraser. "I think I'll join you."

Fraser flushed. Again. Ray'd never met anyone who blushed as often as this guy. "Right," Fraser said. He cleared his throat. "I'll just..." And he fled to the other room.

Ray rolled his eyes and followed, feeling like an eighty-year-old man who had just run a marathon. God, what he wouldn't do for a drink right about now. Best painkiller in the world.

Of course, the Mountie didn't drink, and it wasn't like Ray was up to going to the nearest liquor store, even if he could bribe Diefenbaker to let him escape. Ray sighed. He couldn't honestly say that life on streets was better than this, but he definitely missed his independence.

In the bedroom, Ray found Fraser laying out the nice sleeping bag. Ray sighed again. "Come on, Fraser. Do we really have to have this argument all over again?"

Fraser did a little thing with his tongue and his lower lip that Ray hadn't seen before and which did dangerous things to Ray's libido. Maybe now wasn't the best time to be discussing sleeping arrangements, not while Ray was wearing nothing but a pair of Fraser's boxers (no longer starched or ironed after four days of tossing and turning). "Never mind," Ray said quickly. "We'll fight about it tomorrow."

Which was the right thing to say, for once, because Fraser's entire body slumped in relaxation. "Thank you, Ray."

"Yeah, yeah," Ray said, burrowing his way back into the rumpled sheets. At least Fraser hadn't tried to make the bed again. "Just get some sleep, Fraser."

"You too, Ray," Fraser said, making sheet-rustling noises as well. "Good night."

"'Night," Ray answered. He almost added, 'sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite', but fortunately for all he fell asleep before he had the chance.

ooo

This time when he woke up, Ray only felt half-dead, rather than all-the-way-dead, and he was able to climb to his feet and limp to the bathroom on his own. Fraser was still out like a light when Ray came back, which had to be some sorta miracle, but Ray wasn't about to complain. There were a few things he had to do, and it would be easier to do them without a fire-hydrant red shadow.

First step was the bank, where Ray took out half of his remaining funds for the month. After a moment's consideration, he took out another half of the remainder, which only left a hundred bucks or so to see him through till the next check came. It was a risk -- he would be thoroughly screwed if Fraser suddenly decided to kick him out, not that that would probably happen -- but Ray Kowalski paid his debts, even if they had been incurred while he was unconscious. Besides, he might, _might_ be able to survive a couple of weeks without booze, but there was no way in hell he was living without chocolate, and now that he had a permanent address (even if it wasn't very permanent) there were a few things he could do that he hadn't been able to do while living on the streets. That might, if he played his cards right, keep him from having to go back to the streets. After all, as crappy as Fraser's apartment was, it was light years better than sleeping behind a dumpster and, well, hell. Ray probably didn't have a chance with the Mountie, no matter what, but he didn't even have a chance at _trying_ if he was still living on the streets

From the bank, Ray went to the DMV, and spent a buck to get a copy of his driver's license. Fortunately it was still current, or it would've cost more and required a butt-load of paperwork.

After the DMV, Ray hopped on the El and went to the nearest big store, where he bought a packet of underwear, two shirts, a pair of jeans, a bag of socks, a monster-sized bag of M&M's, and a bag of mini-donuts for Dief. He spent twenty minutes browsing the shelves for something for Fraser, and finally settled on a large, plush bath sheet. Not exciting or anything, but Ray was pretty sure the threadbare bit of cloth he'd been using was Fraser's only towel and the man needed a spare. Besides, a tiny bit of Ray's mind got a kick out of sneaking a luxury in under Fraser's radar.

Ray emerged from the store with a handful of bags and considerably lighter pockets, and realized that he hadn't planned out this trip so good. He shrugged and headed back towards the El. Might as well see if Fraser was up and, anyway, Ray was feeling kind of tired. He'd planned on checking out the job center, but maybe he could take a nap first.

He was a block away from the apartment when he first smelled smoke, and a fire engine zoomed past a moment later. Frowning, Ray picked up the pace a little, smothering a wince as his joints loudly protested; he forgot the pain entirely when he turned the corner to see Fraser's apartment building going up in flames.

Heedless of the bags he still carried, Ray sprinted toward the inferno, screaming, "Fraser! Fraser!" at the top of his lungs. Christ, what had he done, the man had only known him a week and he was already Mountie toast, and how was Ray supposed to live with that, knowing that the man who had survived murderers, drug dealers, arsonists, the fucking tundra, and jumping off of a variety of multi-story buildings was dead now?

Ray had just cleared the ineffective police barrier when two arms, strong as steel, wrapped around his waist and a solid body did its best to knock his knees out from under him. Ray swung out wildly, hitting his captor with the plastic bags he was still holding, his hands fisted so tight that he'd lost all feeling in his fingers.

He was still swinging in a terrified fury when a voice cut through the haze, beating against his eardrums like a fucking metronome. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray…"

Ray froze as he recognized the voice and he twisted around to stare at familiar blue eyes. "Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser answered, sounding distinctly relieved.

Ray tried to drop the bags, realized his hands weren't responding, said "fuck it", and wrapped his arms around the Mountie, bags and all. "Jesus, Fraser," Ray said shakily. "I thought you were dead."

"I must confess to similar fears," Fraser answered in a husky voice and Ray was abruptly aware that Fraser was holding on just as tightly as Ray was. Ray cleared his throat and stepped back. Fraser let him go.

A half-second later, Diefenbaker jumped up and knocked Ray to the ground. Ray figured the wolf was probably mad that the knee-blow hadn't taken him down earlier. He finally managed to unkink his fingers enough to drop the bags and used his aching hands to fend the wolf off, but he didn't have much luck until Fraser jumped into the fray, and even then Dief had to be bodily dragged off. "I'm terribly sorry," Ray," Fraser said, still holding Dief. "He was really very worried."

Ray let out a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but ended up disturbingly close to a sob. "It's okay, Fraser. Kinda nice to know someone cares."

"Ray," Fraser said, sounding appalled. "I hope you don't think--"

Ray waved at him to shut up. "Give me a hand up, will ya?"

Once they were both on their feet and Diefenbaker had been dragged away from the donuts he'd dug out of the plastic bags, they stood side by side, watching Fraser's home burn.

"Shit," Ray breathed as the roof collapsed. "Everything you had was in that apartment."

"Nonsense, Ray. Everything important has survived."

And maybe other people bought that shit, but Ray wasn't blind. He could see the loss and the pain written all over Fraser's face. "Bullshit. What did you lose?"

Fraser looked annoyed. "I assure you--"

Ray talked right over him. "Cause you can't tell me there's nothing you aren't gonna to miss in there."

Fraser looked confused. "Ah--"

"It's not just _stuff_!" Ray exploded. "Believe me, I've been there, and it's never just stuff." Ray turned away from Fraser's wide-eyed face and took a deep breath. "There were photo albums," he admitted softly. "I never cared about them before so I didn't think to go back for them, but now I wish..." He bit his lip and stared at his crappy shoes like they had the meaning of the universe written on them.

"My father's journals," Fraser said abruptly. Ray looked up, surprised. "Everything else can be replaced," Fraser added, trying to cover his obvious pain and doing a piss-poor job of it. "But my father's journals are lost forever."

Ray swallowed hard, but he couldn't get rid of the damn lump in his throat. "Sorry, Fraser."

"It's not your fault, Ray," Fraser answered.

Any protest Ray might have made died on his lips when Fraser suddenly jerked his head in the direction of the nearest squad car. A second later, the Mountie was running.

It took Ray a second to gather his things and follow, swearing under his breath the entire way.

Around the corner from the burning building, just on the other side from the fire trucks and police cars, sat a '71 green Riv. The color was hideous, but the car was in mint condition, and Ray had half a second to admire it before Fraser asked in a strained voice, "Ray, do you have a valid driver's license?"

"Yeah," Ray answered. "I just picked up--"

"You drive," Fraser cut in.

Holy shit. The Mountie had just _interrupted_ him. Ray didn't know what was going on, but clearly it was really fucking serious. "Sure," he said, tossing the bags in the back and taking the keys from Fraser. As he slammed the door shut, he reached over into the back seat and grabbed the wolf by the chin. "No looking in the bags," he said firmly. Diefenbaker grumbled, but settled down in the seat.

Fraser pulled the door shut on the other side and Ray started the engine. "Where to?" he asked as Fraser buckled up like the good Mountie he was.

"2926 North Octavia Avenue," Fraser said, his voice still tight with straight. "And Ray? Please hurry."

Ray didn't have to be told twice and the car tires made a very satisfying squeal as he pulled out onto the street. God, it was even more beautiful to drive than he'd imagined and for a moment Ray just enjoyed the feel of having a few hundred horsepower at his fingertips.

Hell, he was starting to get hard. Considering the car, he figured he was allowed.

Fraser didn't share Ray's appreciation; he just held on to the door handle and stared straight ahead, his face so white Ray was afraid the guy was gonna pass out. "Everything okay?" he asked, just to break the tension.

"No," Fraser answered, and he didn't even blink when Ray blew through a red light.

_Well, shit_, Ray thought, and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

They were three blocks away when they saw the smoke and Ray started swearing under his breath. "That's Vecchio's house, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Fraser looked startled that Ray had figured that out, which was annoying.

"I was a cop, you know," Ray said sharply. "A detective."

"I know," Fraser answered and then they were at the house. "Stay here," he added as he pulled off his hat and shoved open the door.

Ray's whole body was aching and he was about ready to drop with exhaustion, but there was no way he was staying in the car just because some Mountie with an over-developed hero complex told him to, so he jumped out and followed Fraser to the house. A growl stopped him at the door, however, and he glared at Diefenbaker for a second before giving into the inevitable. "Probably no one home anyway," he muttered and started back to the car.

Of course, a minute later Fraser was shoving people out of windows, the freak. Ray tried to help them down and found himself buried under a pile of stunningly beautiful Italian sex-kitten wearing nothing more than a silk robe. His libido, which was already on a hair trigger thanks to being around Fraser all the time, kicked up a notch.

Then a fat guy in desperate need of a bath fell on top of both of them and Ray's libido decided to give it a rest.

By the time everyone was untangled, Fraser was standing at the front of the house with a large aquarium full of goldfish and sirens were blaring as fire trucks pulled up to the curb. The fire trucks were soon followed by EMTs and more cops than Ray was comfortable being around, so he retreated to the safety of Fraser's car to do a little thinking. Diefenbaker, in disgrace thanks to a snack of fresh fish, followed with a hanging head and settled into the back seat without protest. As soon as he was out of Fraser's line of sight, however, his head came up and he licked his lips smugly.

Ray just shook his head and dug his M&M's out of the back seat. Not as good as a bottle of Jack, but it'd have to do for now.

Now, where to start?

How about the fact that, now that everyone in town knew that Ray used to be a cop, he wasn't safe on the streets? Ray winced and pulverized a handful of candies between his teeth, trying to get some satisfaction out of the crunching sound of the candy shell breaking. He sighed. Definitely not as good as whisky.

Okay, so the streets were out. Shitty, but Ray wasn't going to waste a lot of time crying over not being homeless. The question was, what did he do next?

He had an ID now; he could leave Chicago. Of course, he only had enough money to make it to Iowa, and then he'd be right back where he started, only in Iowa. It would be pretty fucking stupid to leave Chicago just to be homeless somewhere else. Plus, you know, _Iowa_.

So, Chicago. But not on the streets. With maybe a couple of hundred bucks to his name and no friends to speak of. Well, unless you counted the Mountie.

Shit.

All right then, consider the Mountie. A day ago, Fraser lived in a dump in one of the worst sections of Chicago. Now (seeing as the car actually belonged to Vecchio) Fraser had even less than Ray did. Fucking moronic, that. No. What's the word? Ironic.

So the question here was, was Fraser living in the dump because it was a couple of blocks from the old Consulate, because it was all he could afford, or because he was a freak? Even taking that last one as a given, Ray thought it might have something to do with Fraser's funds. He was a Canadian working for Canada and technically working on Canadian soil. Ray was willing to bet he got paid in Canadian, and while Ray didn't know a lot about exchange rates, he knew when he and...when he went up north for his honeymoon that he got a lot more Canadian dollars than he'd forked over in American dollars. Which meant that Fraser had a lot less dollars in America than he would've in Canada.

Then there was the fact that the whole Racine area was currently being gentrified (the homeless were always the first to know which parts of town were being shined up, since the first step in cleaning up an area was to get rid of the transients). Fraser's apartment building was the last hold-out; Ray'd heard that some freak had talked at the city council for hours until they agreed to leave the building as is. Which, come to think about it, had probably been Fraser.

Anyway, what it all came down to was the fact that Fraser probably couldn't afford a place to stay in Chicago, at least not within walking distance of the new Consulate. Ray, of course, _definitely_ couldn't afford a place to stay in Chicago. Hell, he probably couldn't afford to stay at the Y.

But if he and Fraser combined their income...

Ray scowled at the windshield and savagely crunched up another handful of candy. There had to be another option.

Except he still hadn't come up with one when Fraser came back to the car half an hour later.

"I'm sorry I was so long," Fraser said, sliding into the driver's seat. Ray handed over the keys silently. "I was hoping that an officer of my acquaintance would arrive on the scene, but it appears that the case has been assigned to a detective that I have not met before."

Ray raised his eyebrows. "What, the good old Mountie charm didn't work on him?"

Fraser frowned. "I don't know what you're referring to."

"Riiight." Ray rubbed his face, thought about bringing up what he'd been thinking about while sitting in the car, and ended up pushing it off again. "Look, whoever this asshole is, he's targeting you and Vecchio. Did you work on any arson cases together?"

Fraser looked thoughtful. "As a matter of fact, there was a painter with the rather improbable name of Zoltan Motherwell."

Which was how they ended up at the Evanston Institution for the Criminally Insane questioning a fat guy with bad facial hair. Fraser tried his polite thing, which didn't do a damn bit of good, before Ray took over. Ray tried to woo the guy with fire, and when that didn't work, he settled for good old intimidation. What was amazing, however, was the way Fraser played along, like they had practiced this thing for months, instead of playing it right off the cuff. Pity Ray wasn't still on the force. They'd have made one hell of a team.

A quick trip to Greta Garbo's apartment, where Ray got to show off some of the B&E skills he'd learned over the last couple of years, and then they were back to the consulate, where Fraser tackled a Swedish interior designer that Fraser's evil boss obviously had designs on, despite the fact that the designer was obviously gay. Oh, and Ray finally got to talk to Turnbull, which was kinda like being drunk, only less fun.

Then there was the car chase and the bomb in the car, and the Riv ended up at the bottom of Lake Michigan, along with everything Ray owned in the world. Maybe that's why Ray did something so incredibly fucking stupid as to step in front of a bullet that was headed for the Mountie.

_Jesus_, Ray thought as he slipped into the black. _What a shitty, shitty day._

ooo

Frantic with worry, Fraser barely had the presence of mind to bind Garbo's hands together with his lanyard and confiscate her weapon before falling to his knees next to Ray.

"Ray?" he called loudly, his fingers already ripping Ray's threadbare shirt apart to assess his condition. The wound was higher than Fraser had feared, closer to the shoulder than the chest, and thankfully there was no sign of blood on Ray's lips, which meant the lungs were intact. Still, Ray was unconscious and bleeding heavily and his body had been under tremendous strain for a very long time. He needed be taken to a hospital immediately.

For one foolish instant, Fraser considered driving Ray himself, in Garbo's van. Fortunately sanity reasserted itself and after a quick search of the van he discovered a cell phone in the glove compartment. He ran back as he dialed, and as he reported the incident he pushed down on Ray's shoulder, doing his best to slow the bleeding as the location of the wound made a tourniquet an impossibility.

Though Fraser would have sworn that all of his attention was directed to Ray, his subconscious must have been focused on Garbo, because the phone was on the ground and the gun in his hand before he was even aware that she was trying to escape. "No," he said simply.

Her lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "You don't use a gun, Mountie."

"Admittedly, I do not possess a permit to carry a weapon in this country," Fraser answered. "But make no mistake: I will shoot you before they arrest me."

That seemed to strike a chord with Ms. Garbo. She spewed forth a river of invectives as she knelt back down to the ground, but she _did_ kneel, and at Fraser's curt command she stretched out flat on her stomach.

Thankfully they could already hear the sounds of approaching sirens. Fraser turned his attention back to Ray to see two blue eyes staring back at him blearily. "Ray!"

"Crazy Mountie," Ray murmured. He licked his chapped lips before adding, "Wanna be roomies?"

Fraser blinked. "Pardon me?"

But it was too late; Ray had already slipped back into unconsciousness.

ooo

Lieutenant Welsh caught up with Fraser in the hospital. Ray was still in surgery and Fraser was expending vast amounts of energy in forcing himself not to pace the halls. "Sir, I'm so glad you're here," Fraser said gratefully.

"Frankly, Constable, I'd rather be anywhere else," Welsh answered. "How's he doing?"

"Still in surgery. I understand, however, that his chances are high."

"Good, that's good." Welsh sat down. After a moment, Fraser followed suit. "I talked to the financial department," Welsh added. "They understand that Kowalski won't be able to pay for his treatment." Fraser bit his lip and nodded. "They also understand that the man is a hero," Welsh added pointedly. "They'll take good care of him."

Fraser sighed as some of the tension unraveled in his shoulders. "Thank you, sir. I admit that I had been feeling some trepidation."

"Well stop it. Kowalski will be fine." He cleared his throat. "What about you, Constable? Have you figured out what to do next?"

"Ah, no, sir. To be honest, I haven't thought of much of anything beyond Ray's current health."

"That doesn't surprise me," Welsh said. "I take it you'll be staying here tonight."

"Yes, sir."

Welsh nodded again and was silent for a minute, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "Fraser, I got a question to ask you, a personal one."

"You can ask anything of me," Fraser said. "I hope you know that."

"I do, I do." Welsh stared at him for another minute before asking abruptly, "Have you considered sharing an apartment with Kowalski?"

Fraser stared back. He would swear that that wasn't what the Lieutenant had intended to ask. "Ah, it's a possibility, yes. I would, of course, need to consult Ray first." He carefully did not mention Ray's words on the pier. Ray had been out of his mind in pain at the time, and even if he had been rational a discussion had been impossible under the circumstances. Fraser would not commit Ray to anything as permanent as a lease without obtaining Ray's blessing first.

"Fine, that's fine," Welsh said, before changing the subject. "How long's it been since you've eaten?"

Fraser floundered for a second, before admitting, "I don't remember, sir."

"Then it's been too long. I'll get us something to eat from the cafeteria. You stay here and wait for word about Kowalski."

Fraser didn't think he'd be able to eat, but he couldn't argue with Welsh's logic, so he simply nodded his acquiescence.

The Lieutenant had yet to return when a tall, slender man in hospital scrubs pushed his way into the waiting room. Fraser immediately stood up, clutching his hat in his hands. "Benton Fraser?" the man called.

Fraser hurried over. "Yes?"

The doctor eyed Fraser's uniform, but simply asked, "You're the one who brought in Ray Kowalski?"

"Yes, sir. How is he?"

"Out of the woods," the doctor answered. Fraser let out a sigh of relief. "We were able to remove the bullet and repair the damage without complications."

"Thank you," Fraser said, his shoulders slumping as the tension slowly leaked away. "When may I see him?"

"He's currently resting in recovery. The nurse'll let you know when you can see him."

"Thank you," Fraser repeated fervently. "Thank you so much."

With a bemused shake of his head, the doctor left. A few minutes later Welsh came in bearing a tray of sandwiches and Fraser suddenly realized that he was starving. He brought Welsh up to date on Ray's condition while working his way through the sandwiches with unseemly haste.

It was just over an hour before the nurse let them in to see Ray, and by the time Fraser entered the room his exhaustion was weighing on him as heavy as a lead blanket. It was to be expected, of course, since he'd had perhaps ten hours of sleep total in the last five days and he'd spend most of the previous twenty hours running on adrenaline, but he was still embarrassed at his weakness. It was a relief when Welsh offered the unconscious Ray his well wishes and left the room.

Alone with Ray, Fraser allowed himself to collapse into the chair next to the bed. Reaching out to touch Ray's forearm with the very tips of his fingers, Fraser dropped his head to rest against the mattress for a few moments. He was instantly asleep.

ooo

Ray woke up feeling groggy and kinda queasy, but still way the fuck better than that first day after withdrawal. Shit. Maybe it _was_ time to kick the booze.

Even more surprising than waking up in a hospital with all body parts attached was finding a head full of shiny dark hair pressed against Ray's arm. The head was attached to a bright red uniform, which meant it was Fraser. Like anyone else had hair that shiny. Still, it was kinda weird to see Fraser zonked out like that. Apparently even the Mountie had limits.

That was okay. The guy needed sleep. Ray could just wait until he woke up to find out exactly what happened.

Though it'd be easier if there was a TV.

Or someone to talk to.

Or some music.

Damn, that hair was shiny. Looked kind of soft, too...

When Fraser did wake up, it was instantaneous. One minute conked out on the bed, the next sitting bolt upright, looking around the room in confusion. Unfortunately, Ray hadn't had time to remove his hand from Fraser's hair before Fraser sat up, which led to some yelling and pulled muscles and what looked like every nurse in the goddamn hospital. Then there were lectures on 'this is why we don't allow guests overnight' and 'if you're not careful you'll pop some stitches' and by this point a simple hangover was looking pretty damn good.

Finally, Fraser managed to get the room clear, which made him Ray's hero, despite the fact that that shiny, shiny hair was still looking perfect. "Thanks," Ray croaked. "They were making my head hurt."

"Of course, Ray." He sat back down next to the bed. "How're you feeling?"

"Like shit. You?"

"I'm fine," Fraser answered. "You're the one who was shot."

Ray groaned. "I was hoping that was a nightmare."

Fraser smiled, looking sad. "I'm afraid not."

"We get the bad guy?"

The smile grew more certain. "Yes, we did."

"Good," Ray said, his eyes starting to droop, despite the fact that he'd been awake for all of a minute. He forced them back open. "What about you? Where are you going to live now?"

"Well, actually, Ray," Fraser started, and Ray could tell he was gearing up for a lecture.

"Short version, Benton-buddy, before I pass out again."

"Ah, well, right." Fraser cleared his throat. "Would you--could you possibly consider--I mean--"

"Fraser!"

"--wouldyouliketoberoommates?" Fraser said, all in a rush, and now it looked like he was holding his breath.

Ray let out a relieved sigh. "Yeah, sure, Fraser. That sounds great."

And now that all the important things were taken care of, Ray let himself go back to sleep.

ooo

Fraser stared down at Ray's too-thin body, smiling fondly. He hadn't had the opportunity to watch many movies in his life, but he remembered Casablanca very well, and he couldn't help but think how perfectly that movie ended.

Reaching out, Fraser let his fingers run over the back of Ray's hand.

Beautiful friendship, indeed.


	2. Fortune's Bitch

**Chance 2: Fortune's Bitch**

Hospitals suck. Especially when you're stuck in one for a week. Now normally when a man can't pay his bill, they boot you after the first day, but no. Not Ray. Not the fucking _hero_, like he'd done anything at all but get in the way of Fraser catching the bad guy. Girl. Whatever.

Which was getting away from the main point, anyway, which was that hospitals suck. Even if being stuck in one was all part of Ray's master plan. People didn't think Ray was smart enough to have master plans, but he was and he did and this one was going to be awesome. Eventually. Once the Mountie broke down enough to put the plan in motion, anyway.

Speaking of the plan... Ray glanced around the room to make sure no one was hiding in the corners or anything then he reached under his mattress to pull out that day's classifieds. He could probably keep them in plain sight, but the Mountie had super-freaky Mountie powers, and would probably be able to tell which apartments Ray was looking at, namely the single bedroom apartments, which was all that he and Fraser could afford. The key was getting Fraser to see that and then accept that, because there were prudes, and then there were nuns, and then there was Fraser, in a class all by himself. The scary-super-prudish-Canadian guy class.

Unfortunately, today's apartments weren't real interesting, so Ray flipped the pages till he got to the obits. He always liked reading the obituaries; people never got any nicer than when they were describing their recently dead loved ones.

Sadly it looked like a Mrs. Pennyworth had passed, though she did manage to live to the ripe old age of 87 and left behind what looked like a hundred kids. Not a bad way to be remembered.

And look there, Mr. Pembleton. 102. Jesus, didn't anyone die young anymore?

Ray's eyes moved down to the next obituary and he froze.

Five minutes later he was sneaking out of the hospital, heading for the Mountain View Cemetery.

ooo

Fraser wasted several minutes staring blankly at the incontrovertibly empty bed before he roused himself to necessity of making phone calls.

The first, of course, was to Lieutenant Welsh. _This is not a good time, Constable_.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you, sir, but Ray Kowalski has disappeared."

There was a sigh on the other end. _Why is it that every problem I have today begins and ends with a man named Ray?_

Fraser was still attempting to come up with an appropriate Inuit story to either comfort Welsh in his troubles or to help elucidate the seriousness of the situation when Welsh added, _Don't say anything, Constable, I don't have much time and you need to know what's going on_. He paused, then sighed again. _IA is here, looking into one of Vecchio's old drug busts._

"There must be some mistake," Fraser said, unable to help himself. "Ray Vecchio would _never_--"

_I know that and you know that,_ Welsh interrupted. _But IA and the State Attorney's office are choosing not to believe it. There are personal factors at play._

"An enemy of Ray's?" Fraser guessed.

_No. One of mine_. There was some noise in the background on Welsh's end. _They're coming back, so I have to make this quick. They're saying Vecchio stole nine kilos of heroin and since he's not here to defend himself they're having fun rattling our cages. The cover story is that Ray went to New York City with Frankie, but decided that he didn't like it enough to stay._ The noise in the background sounded suspiciously like shouting, and the Lieutenant muttered an imprecation and then paused. When he spoke again, his voice carried that thoughtful note that usually led to his best ideas. _Are you still on leave, Constable?_

"Yes, sir. Indefinitely."

_Good, that's good. Here's what I need you to do. Keep your head down for the next few days, just till we can get these guys out of here. Can you do that?_

"Of course, sir."

Welsh snorted. _Do your best, Constable, that's all I can ask._

"Yes, sir. Good luck."

_Thank you, Constable._ He hung up.

Only then did Fraser realize that he'd completely forgotten to ask about assistance in his search for Ray Kowalski.

It wouldn't be right to call the Lieutenant back, not when he was so busy with the IA investigation, but Fraser was an officer in his own right and he liked to think that he hadn't grown as soft as Diefenbaker. With that in mind, he began a search of the room.

He found the newspaper under the bed, folded open to the obituaries. It seemed an unlikely choice of reading for Ray, but then Fraser had only known the man for a couple of weeks. No man could be fully understood in fourteen days.

Lacking any additional evidence, Fraser had to assume that Ray had departed the hospital because of something he'd read in the obituaries. Unfortunately there was no indication of which obituary had caught his attention, which left only one option: to investigate them all.

ooo

Ray wasn't so good in cemeteries, but this one had a map right next to the gate so he was okay. Better than okay, he realized as he discovered a mausoleum that overlooked the freshly dug grave.

Unfortunately the mausoleum was locked, and not in a way that Ray could jimmy with his new driver's license. By the time he and a big rock were done with the padlock it was kinda in pieces, but Ray figured he could replace it later. No rush though; it wasn't like there were people yammering to get outta this place.

Once he was inside, he settled down against a wall opposite the window he was interested in and prepared to wait. It would be easier to do this with surveillance gear, like say a pair of binoculars, but Ray hadn't lost all of his people knowledge. Ellery wouldn't come to the grave before the funeral; not much point in saying goodbye to an empty grave.

Which meant he had a lot of time to kill. Shit. He should have bought a bottle of something on the way over.

For a moment he considered sneaking back out and looking for the nearest liquor store, but there was a good chance he'd get caught and thrown out, and besides, it seemed stupid to drink today of all days. Normally he drank to forget; today was all about remembering.

Remembering Her.

"Stella."

Ray gasped. Jesus, it'd been years since he last said her name, and the whispered word that tumbled unconsciously from his lips hit him like a punch in the gut. And, just like a punch in the gut, the words brought up a lot of unpleasant stuff: Stella leaving him, shacking up with Orsini, getting blown up by the mob. All of his most recent memories.

Once they had been purged, however, there was room for the sweet stuff: bumping into Stella (literally) at the First National bank (don't think about what happened next), the shy smile she gave him as she later invited him to come to her birthday party, their first kiss (behind the bleachers at his school's homecoming game their junior year), their first fumbling attempts at sex, the first time they came simultaneously, their wedding day, their wedding night, Stella graduating from law school, her first major case...

All so beautiful, so sweet. Ray closed his eyes and felt a couple of tears drop down, but he didn't bother brushing them away as he let his head rest back against the filthy mausoleum wall and let himself remember.

ooo

By the third cemetery, Fraser had lost confidence in his assumption that the obituaries had anything at all to do with Ray's disappearance, and far more plausible theories soon took its place. Perhaps Ray had succumbed to the desire for alcohol and left the hospital to find a liquor store. Perhaps he had seen the opportunity to escape from potential (albeit unlikely) prosecution and fled the state. Perhaps he'd regretted his decision to move in with Fraser and had returned to the streets rather than face Fraser with his change of mind.

Or, and this was the possibility that Fraser feared the most, perhaps he'd felt pressured to acquiesce to Fraser's suggestion that they move in together and he had fled the hospital not to avoid prosecution, but to avoid Fraser himself. If that were the case, Fraser shouldn't be persecuting Ray by continuing to search for him, but should instead inform Lieutenant Welsh of Ray's disappearance and ask for an APB to be put out for him. He would have done so already, but Fraser remembered all too clearly the desperation in Ray's voice as the villains in his cell realized that he was an ex-police officer and the smirk on the guard's face as he casually strolled into a possible riot in progress. It wasn't safe for Ray to be arrested again at this juncture. It simply wasn't.

Oh, who was he trying to convince?

Fraser was so caught up in his internal argument, that he didn't realize that the fake funeral he'd stumbled on was an illegal activity until he found himself on the wrong end of a gun. Again. For the second time in less than two weeks. Perhaps Ray Vecchio had been right when he claimed that Fraser was a trouble magnet.

Lacking any better alternatives, Fraser did his best to bluff his way out of the situation. "Gentlemen, I must ask that you lower your weapons and place your hands above your head. I am making a citizen's arrest." Not that he was a citizen of this country, but he trusted that these men would not realize that. It was amazing the number of explanations people could come up with for his uniform if left to their own devices.

The man with the Cuban accent snorted, "Yeah, right, leatherboy."

Ah, yes. Fraser had heard that one before, though he didn't quite know what it meant and when he'd asked Ray his only explanation was gales of laughter and a promise to tell him when he was older. "I'm afraid I really must insist," Fraser said out loud, keeping his eye out for a flash white that would indicate that Diefenbaker had dragged his attention away from whatever shiny item had currently caught his fancy and was preparing to provide backup.

There! There he was, currently...running _away_ from Fraser, a bouquet of flowers in his mouth. Fraser closed his eyes and sighed. Hopeless. Just...hopeless.

Suddenly he heard a yelp, and his eyes snapped open again to see the Cuban-accented gunman go down like a sack of potatoes. The other man looked around frantically for whatever had rendered his accomplice unconscious, but he was looking the wrong direction when the rock sailed through the air and knocked him on the back of the head.

Fraser blinked at the two supine gunmen then looked around for his rescuer. He was grateful, though not as surprised as he probably should have been, to see Ray Kowalski limping over. "I can't believe I hit them," Ray said with a huge grin on his face. "I'm not even wearing my glasses." Suddenly he frowned. "Fraser, why is your wolf running around carrying flowers?"

If asked later, Fraser wouldn't be able to explain what he did next, but at the time it seemed like the only rational thing to do: he reached out and wrapped Ray in a giant bear hug.

There was a long pause before he felt two hands tentatively pressing against his back. "Uh, Fraser? You okay?"

It took a ridiculous amount of effort, but Fraser managed to release Ray and step back. "I was worried," he admitted. "You left, and you didn't even leave a note." Even Ray Vecchio had managed to leave a note, albeit one that came in the mail a few days after Fraser had arrived back in town.

Ray had let go of Fraser as soon as Fraser stepped back, but now he put his hand on Fraser's shoulder. "Sorry about that," he said, sounding as sincere as Fraser had ever heard him. "I wasn't thinking so clearly at the time."

"I'm hardly in a position to protest," Fraser pointed out again. "You saved my life again."

"Yeah, well, you'd make me a happy guy if you stopped getting yourself nearly shot," Ray answered, with some justification.

"I'll do my best," Fraser answered. Ray snorted. "If you'll give me just a moment, I'll call the appropriate authorities." He pulled out his cell phone.

Ray stared. "Since when do you gotta cell phone?"

"Since you were shot, and I had no recourse but to use a suspect's phone," Fraser answered, dialing. He didn't mention the nightmares he'd had since that day, imagining what would have happened if Greta Garbo had been as hidebound as himself, and had chosen not to carry a cellular telephone.

"Oh." Ray shifted on his feet and looked around the cemetery, clearly uncomfortable at Fraser's comment. Understandable; what man would wish to be reminded of the time when he was shot? To this day, Fraser tried not to think about the lat time it had happened to him.

_Welsh_.

Fraser wrenched his attention away from Ray and back to the matter at hand. "Hello, Lieutenant Welsh. It's Con--"

_Fraser_, Welsh whispered harshly. _Is this what you call keeping your head down? It hasn't even been three hours._

Fraser winced. "Yes, I understand that, sir, but I'm afraid that I ran into a pair of men engaged in illegal activity."

Welsh sighed. _What kind of illegal activity?_

"Ah." He should have thought to ascertain that before calling. "Well, they were carrying illegal weapons and--"

Fraser looked around for any indication of what these men were doing, but before he had a chance to search the hearse, Ray opened the coffin inside and called out, "Cuban cigars."

"They were trafficking in Cuban cigars."

Welsh cursed. _Can I assume that once again you found yourself on the wrong end of a bullet?_

"No sir. Ray stopped them before they could fire."

A long pause. _Right. Congratulate him for me, will you Constable?_

"With pleasure, sir," Fraser answered, smiling at Ray. Ray reared back at the look and hastily went wandering off in the same direction they'd last seen Diefenbaker run.

Fraser frowned, but returned his attention to the phone. _--a couple of units over right away. And Constable?_

"Yes, sir?"

_Keep your head down, and this time I mean it._

"I'll do my best, sir."

Another sigh. _I know you will, Constable_. There was shouting in the background and when Welsh spoke again his voice was soft and fast. _I'll call you when it's safe to come back in._

"Yes, sir. Thank you, s--" He was interrupted by a dial tone.

With a sigh of his own, Fraser put the phone away and went searching for Ray and Diefenbaker. He found both of them sitting in front of a grave with an elaborate headstone that prominently featured a dog. A long-haired collie, if he wasn't mistaken. Dief was sitting next to a pile of flowers, looking forlorn, and Ray had his uninjured arm draped over Dief's shoulders. "It's okay," Ray was saying. "Look, she lived to be fourteen. That's like a hundred in dog years, isn't it?"

Dief just grumbled and leaned in closer to Ray's body.

Fraser felt a strange burning in his eyes and blinked rapidly to clear it. "Ray?"

"Yeah, Fraser?" Ray asked, without turning away from the headstone.

For once, Fraser didn't know what to say, so he took the easy route: "I'll be waiting for the squad car."

"Okay." His arm tightened a bit around Dief. Diefenbaker, who usually disdained such close contact, whined and twisted his head to lick Ray's ear.

"Ew," Ray said mildly, but he didn't try to push Dief away.

Feeling an absurd sense of abandonment, Fraser walked away from his two friends.

By the time Ray and Diefenbaker wandered back to the road outside the Coleman mausoleum, the miscreants had long since been taken away, Fraser had met a lovely (albeit, grabby) woman who was shooting bullets into her beloved husband's grave, and the funeral Ray had come for was just about to begin. When Fraser said as much to Ray, however, Ray just shrugged. "It's okay, I didn't come for the funeral anyway."

Fraser frowned. "You didn't?"

"Nah. I'd hoped to see someone at the funeral, but I had some time to think and I don't think I need to see him no more."

"Ah," Fraser said, though that explanation made no sense whatsoever. "Then would you like to return to the hospital?"

"No," Ray said quickly. "Seriously, Fraser, I hate that place. Haven't you found an apartment yet?"

The question implied that Ray equated a successful conclusion to Fraser's search for residence with his own departure from the hospital, which meant that Ray still planned on sharing said residence with Fraser. Warmth spread out from Fraser's chest even as he answered, "I'm afraid not, Ray."

Ray grunted. "Come on, then. I'm not ready for the hospital and, anyway, I need to sit down before I fall down."

Fraser didn't like the sound of that, but he didn't hesitate as he followed Ray into the crypt. He stopped at the door, however, and frowned. "Someone has broken this lock."

"Yeah, that was me," Ray said. "Don't worry, I'll replace it."

Not entirely satisfied, but lacking a good excuse to argue, Fraser entered the tomb.

He found Ray sitting on the floor, regardless of the dust and detritus that covered everything in sight. "Come on in, Fraser," Ray said. "Pull up some concrete. I need to get some stuff off my chest."

Fraser inspected the floor dubiously, but sat down opposite Ray. "Are you okay?" he asked, though as far as he could tell, Ray was as good as he'd been since Fraser had first met him.

"Yeah," Ray said, sounding surprised. "I think I am." He stared up at the statue in the center of the room, avoiding eye contact as he added, "Fraser did I ever tell you I was married?"

When the question was phrased that way, Fraser could honestly answer, "No Ray, I don't believe you did."

"Yeah, well, I was. To Stella." Ray stumbled a bit on the name, like he hadn't said it in a long time. "She was a gold coast girl. Beautiful. Untouchable. I met her when I was thirteen and it was love at first sight." He smiled, or maybe it was more of a smirk. "Of course, that was before I knew shit about love or sex. Sometimes I think if I hadn't met her, I might've turned out to be gay, 'cause she's the only girl I ever looked at that way." He sighed. "But it's not like I ever saw any guy that way either. From the moment I met her, Stella was my whole world. I couldn't see anyone else, because I was always looking at her."

Fraser stared at Ray, unsure of what to say or do. The parallels between his own life and Ray's were stunningly blatant and yet at the same time barely apparent. Both he and Ray had loved but one woman in their lives, and that woman eventually betrayed each of them. Yet at the same time, Fraser remembered the details about Stella Kowalski in Ray's file: she was an ASA who had been married to Ray for over fifteen years. Victoria had spent her life hurting people and had betrayed Fraser without a moment's remorse. Stella, whatever else could be said about her, had worked to help people and had committed a significant portion of her life to one man. In that respect, Fraser envied Ray. And yet, to have the love of your life for fifteen years only to lose her -- the pain of that must have been staggering.

As for Ray's other revelation, well. Fraser wasn't sure what to think of it, so he put it aside to consider another day.

Ray went on to tell Fraser about his and Stella's first meeting, about Marcus Ellery and the bank, about the humiliation of urinating himself and Stella's subsequent misunderstanding. "I was so mad at him, Fraser," Ray said. "Even now, a lifetime later, and I'm still embarrassed because as a kid I was scared of a guy with a gun. Not that the Ellery's not an asshole, because he is and was and always will be, but I--I'm glad I was a cop. I was a good cop, except for maybe at the end, and I would have been a shitty business man." His lips quirked. "Did I tell you that that's what Stella and my dad wanted me to be? A business man. Stock broker or 'corporate executive'," Ray used air quotes, "or some such shit like that. Can you imagine me in one of those downtown offices? I can't. Hell, I can't even imagine myself in a suit, outside of a court case. I probably wouldn't last one full day in a suit."

Ray's voice cut off as the room suddenly darkened. "What's that, Fraser? What the fuck is going on?"

"It must be the eclipse," Fraser answered. "I'd forgotten that was today." He'd been too worried about Ray to remember, though of course he didn't say that out loud.

"Let's go outside," Ray said, and judging from the scuffling noises he was making, he was standing up to do just that. "I ain't never seen an eclipse before."

Fraser had seen several in his life, but never a full eclipse, so he readily followed Ray's sounds out of the mausoleum. "Wow," Ray said, sounding awed. "This is freaky."

Fraser had to agree. It was remarkable the way day had suddenly turned to night. "You know, Ray, the Inuit believe that an eclipse occurs when the sun and the moon leave their position in the sky to make sure that all is well on Earth."

"That's cool, Fraser," Ray said, and it sounded like he meant it. Fraser couldn't help but smile.

The eclipse couldn't last forever, of course, and soon they found themselves in a day lit cemetery once again. Fraser glanced around to see if Diefenbaker had deigned to return, when he saw a heavyset man standing next to the grave that Ray had been so interested in earlier. "Ray, is that Marcus Ellery?"

Ray looked over. "Yeah," he said with a disbelieving laugh. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"You want to talk to him?"

"Nah," Ray said with a shrug. "The statute of limitations ran out years ago. There's no point in talking to him now."

Fraser thought about suggesting the hospital again, but reconsidered. "Would you like to accompany me in my search for an apartment?"

Ray brightened. "Really? Cause I got a few ideas."

"Of course, Ray. You'll be living there, too, you know."

Ray grinned and started walking towards the cemetery gates and Fraser quickly moved to follow. "Yeah, I guess I am." Diefenbaker came running out of the headstones to join them and Ray patted him on the head without breaking stride. "So the thing is, Fraser, we're not going to be able to afford a two bedroom apartment."

Since Fraser had already come to a similar conclusion, he just answered, "Indeed, Ray?"

"'Indeed'," Ray repeated, shaking his head. "'Indeed' he says. Fraser, you're a freak."

Fraser smiled. "Understood."


	3. Making Your Own Luck

**Chances 3: Making Your Own Luck**

Ray woke up at his usual time, which meant Fraser was already long gone. Dropping his head back down on his pillow, Ray sighed. He'd meant to get up earlier today, to see Fraser off for his first day back at work; apparently the poor guy was going to have to see a shrink or some such shit and Ray figured he could use the moral support. He'd even set his alarm...huh. Flipping over in his tiny bed, he reached down and snagged the cheap alarm clock off the floor. It read 9:23 p.m., which meant the alarm would go off in approximately nine hours. Ray sighed again. He sucked.

Lying in bed wouldn't make him suck any less, though, so he dragged himself upright and wandered into the living room. It was a nice sized living room, considering what they were paying, and underneath the crappy rug were hardwood floors, which got Ray excited in ways he hadn't been excited about in years.

Once Ray had gotten Fraser to admit that they couldn't afford a two bedroom place, the apartment hunting had gone pretty quickly. Fraser got hung up on the kitchen in this place, which was approximately the size of a closet, but hell, neither of them was much of a cook anyway and, besides, one whole side of the kitchen was open to the living room, making it feel bigger than it actually was. Plus, you know, they only had the one pot.

More important than the freaking kitchen was the bathroom, which was _huge_. Whoever had designed this building clearly had a jones for baths, because there was an enormous claw-footed bathtub taking up an unholy amount of space, and even Fraser had gotten a twinkle in his eye when he saw it. Ray'd used it the first night they'd moved in and damn if the tub wasn't deep enough that he could put his whole body underwater. Now that was a bathtub.

The real clincher for Ray though, the thing that made up for the tiny kitchen and the kinda small bedroom (not to mention the complete lack of closet space in said bedroom -- clearly the guy who designed this building had been some kinda bathroom idiot servant, or whatever those guys were called), was what he'd discovered when he looked under the crappy rug to see if it was hiding dry rot or something equally nasty that needed to be disclosed before they talked security deposit: dance steps. Right there painted on the floor were the feet shadows people used for dance steps. Ray didn't need the shadows, he hadn't needed them for a long time, but he'd seen them as a sign and at that moment he knew this was the place for them.

Fraser had taken a bit of convincing -- like he was going to use that kitchen anyway, dammit -- but eventually he'd come around and they'd moved in that same day. No sleeping in the same bed (not that they'd had beds at that point, anyway), but Ray'd learned that when he didn't have long underwear available, Fraser slept in boxers and a tank top, so all things considered it was a win.

The next day they'd gone out for furniture and clothing, seeing as neither of them had much of either (in fact, Fraser was in the lead at that point, since all Ray had had after the ER had finished cutting his clothes from his injured shoulder was a pair of bloodstained jeans, sneakers, and a scrub shirt). Ray had hoped he would be able to work his magic again and convince Fraser that it would save money to buy one big bed rather than two small ones, but the first thing they saw was an unbelievable deal on a set of used bunk beds that could be split into two twin beds. Those beds were currently on opposite sides of the small bedroom, with a dresser in between, sort of like the Cleavers, if the Cleavers had hated each other.

It wasn't like Ray could complain, though, seeing as Fraser had paid for everything. It sucked, but it was the way things had to be since there was still a week till Ray's pension check was deposited (and it wasn't like it was big enough to start over with anyway). At least Ray had been able to afford his new clothes, another bag of M&M's, donuts for Dief, and even a duplicate of the bath sheet he'd gotten for Fraser. Fraser had pointed out the fri-friv-pointlessness of the gift, but whatever. It wasn't news to anyone that Ray was stubborn.

Now that Ray was no longer on the streets, though, that pension check just wasn't gonna cut it, which meant he had to find work, and faster rather than later. He wasn't really looking forward to the search as there wasn't much going for him, seeing as how his only work experience had been as a cop and he'd just barely gotten his diploma, but at least he didn't have to worry about a criminal record. Welsh had taken care of that whole trespassing charge while Ray had been in the hospital.

Still, not like putting it off was going to help him find a job sooner, so after fortifying himself with a chocolate-sweetened mug of coffee, Ray hoofed it to the nearest job center. Good thing Fraser had been stuffing food down Ray's throat for the last two weeks -- no way in hell could he have managed the walk back then and it wasn't like Ray had the money for a cab (or a bus, or the El, and damn did he need a source of cash pronto).

Ray spent most of the day at the job center, mainly working on his resume. He'd never actually written a resume before since he'd gone straight into the academy outta community college (which he'd managed a whole month of) and then into the force from there. Thank God for Shelia, the chick behind the desk who showed him a few tricks, like how Word had pre-made resume layouts so's all he'd had to do was fill in the blanks. Course, even with the layout, he couldn't stretch one job to a whole page, so Shelia helped out with that, too. Friendly girl, that Shelia.

After Ray had a resume that looked like a resume should look, he printed off about a gazillion copies (which was free, thank god, because Ray didn't have the two bucks they were charging for a floppy disk), and spent the rest of the afternoon looking through want ads and applying to anything that didn't require experience. There weren't a whole lotta good prospects, but hell, Ray just wanted the money. Once the cash started coming in for shoveling shit, or whatever, he figured he could spend more time looking for something better.

He gave up once his stomach started growling loud enough to be heard halfway across the room. Funny, he was never hungry when he was living on the streets, but ever since Fraser had started pouring food into him, Ray's body'd been expecting it. Kind of annoying, really, but then again it wasn't like he didn't need the calories. Especially since he wasn't getting any from booze anymore.

Speaking of...it was kinda perverse that Ray had to pass not one, but two liquor stores to get to the job center and back home. One of them was a dive, a scuzzy place with bars covering dirty windows and half the neon letters burned out, and Ray didn't have any problems walking past that one.

The other place, though, was kind of upscale, with wooden shelves and pretty looking fake plants dressing up the windows. Ray knew if he walked into this shop a cute girl would be standing behind the register and she'd offer to help him pick out something special.

Not that Ray needed or wanted something special and not like he could pay for it anyway, but god he wanted to so bad. Somehow between being in Fraser's custody and then being sick and then being in the hospital and then being with Fraser all the time, period, Ray had managed to be clean and sober for nearly a month now and he was missing the burn of the booze so bad he could almost feel it in the back of his throat.

After the little confessional at the crypt -- Fraser insisted on calling it a 'breakthrough', whateverthefuck that meant -- Ray'd thought he and his fucked up brain had come to an understanding and that he'd be over all the shit he'd been through the last couple of years. Unfortunately, according to Fraser anyway, that's not how it worked, and Ray had to admit that he'd avoided thinking her name ever since the eclipse. Guess he was even more fucked up than he'd thought. Fraser kept telling him not to get discouraged. Easy to say when you're the perfect fucking Mountie. Not so easy when you're a fucked in the head ex-cop with an alcohol problem.

(Fraser had said he was impressed that Ray could admit he had an alcohol problem. Ray had pointed out that that was nearly as stupid as being impressed that Ray had noticed he lived on the streets.)

Still, almost thirty days without booze. If he were in AA, he'd be getting a medallion. Course, he wasn't in AA, but he did have Fraser, which was the next best thing. And instead of a medallion, Ray would get a smile, one of those smiles that lit up Fraser's whole face.

With a shrug, Ray turned away from the window and kept on walking. It wasn't like he had any money anyway.

ooo

Since they were still collectively broke, Ray ended up having to use the kitchen after all and, yeah, okay, it was kinda small. Still, how much space did you need to make sandwiches? Especially after four days of sandwiches, which meant you had the whole process down pat.

Though sandwiches did kind of get old, especially when all you had was turkey. Maybe Ray could try and make tuna fish salad. He remembered he liked tuna fish salad when his mom made it for him when he was a kid, and it would be a nice break from turkey. Just had to find the ingredients, right?

He got as far as tuna fish and mayo before he ran out of possible ingredients, due to the fact that their cupboards were kind of bare. Still, what else did you need?

He mixed the two together, tasted the result, and wrinkled his nose. Definitely missing something. His mom's tuna fish had been kinda sweet and wasn't nearly this greasy. What the hell else had she put in it? Ray wished he'd thought to ask when he'd had the chance.

_You could always ask her now_, a tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Ray scowled and shoved the bowl of greasy tuna in the fridge. Maybe Fraser would have some ideas about what to do with it.

Speaking of the Mountie, where was he? He should've gotten off work an hour ago, and he'd assured Ray that this apartment was no more than a half-hour's walk from the consulate.

Ray was considering attempting that walk himself (though it was kind of cold for it, since Ray wouldn't be able to afford a real coat till his check came through), when the front door opened and Fraser walked in, looking shell-shocked. "Fraser," Ray called happily. He realized how eager that sounded, so he quickly toned down his voice. "Where, uh, where've you been?"

"Work, Ray," Fraser answered, and between the short answer and Fraser's pasty white face, all sorts of alarm bells were going off in Ray's head.

He quickly ran through everything he knew about Fraser's job: guarding the gate, working with Vecchio (except not anymore), uh...guarding the gate. And the psych evaluation. That must be it.

They hadn't made Ray a detective for nothing.

"How'd the evaluation go?" he asked, pushing the plate of sandwiches aside for the moment. Fraser didn't look very hungry.

"It..." Fraser started, dropping down on one of the stools next to the breakfast bar (they were cheaper than buying a table and chairs, though that was next on their list of things to get once there was money again). "It was..." he tried again. This was starting to freak Ray out. Fraser sighed. "Ray, when you hear the word 'chainsaw', what word comes to mind?"

"Massacre," Ray said instantly.

"Not 'closet'?"

Chainsaw-closet. Chainsaw-closet. God, Ray hoped Fraser hadn't said that to the shrink. "You didn't say that to the shrink, did you?"

"Ah." Fraser touched his eyebrow, which Ray had figured out was Canadian for being shifty. "And the word 'closet'," Fraser said, which answered the question for Ray, anyway. "When you hear 'closet', what do you think?"

_Gay_, Ray thought instantly, but he had some survival instincts left. "So what you're saying is that your psych thing didn't go so good."

"Not likely, I'm afraid." Fraser sighed and his head and his shoulders slumped just a little.

Shit, this was worse than Ray'd thought. "You hungry?" he asked to be polite, since he was already packing up the sandwiches.

"Ah, no thank you," Fraser answered, not looking up. "But you should eat."

"I'm not hungry either," Ray said, and it wasn't a total lie. He wasn't hungry for sandwiches, anyway. He considered his obviously depressed roommate for several seconds, wondering what he could do to cheer him up. Something cheap, because they were broke, but also something that would get them out of the apartment. His brain kicked in with a pretty good idea, actually. "Hey, Fraser. You like boxing?"

Now Fraser looked confused, which was a step up from beaten. "I can't say I've had much experience with it."

Ray grinned. "Then it's time to fix that. Come on, we're going out."

ooo

The gym was surrounded by African American youths wearing a preponderance of yellow and purple, though, Fraser noted with interest, never the two colors on the same person. During the El ride to the gym, Ray had explained that the majority of the people here tonight would be friends of the boxers, both of whom were members of local street gangs. Presumably individuals used the differing colors to align themselves with their chosen champion, much as fans of differing sports teams wore their team's uniform colors. It was all quite fascinating, really, and a much-needed distraction from the anxiety Fraser was experiencing with regards to the psychological evaluation he was currently undergoing at the Consulate.

Tonight he would not think of said evaluation, he decided. Instead he would focus on his friend and the thoughtfulness behind his friend's suggestion. To that end, he said, "It looks very popular."

Ray smiled. "It's sort of a youth-outreach type program -- get kids to work out their issues with boxing gloves instead of guns."

"An admirable goal. Has it been effective?"

Ray's smile dimmed and Fraser immediately regretted asking the question, though it was too late to take it back now. "Maybe," Ray said. "I don't keep up with it like I did before--"

_Before Stella died_, Fraser filled in silently.

"--but I heard good things when I was on the streets. It isn't gonna fix everything, but if it keeps a couple of kids from doing something stupid, then it's worth it."

"I agree," Fraser said, and was rewarded when the darkness lifted from Ray's features.

"Come on, let's get in before all the good seats are taken."

Fraser just smiled in acquiescence and followed Ray into the gym. It was even more crowded inside than out, and nearly as dark; most of the available light was directed at the ring. Fraser was still able to make out a familiar face sitting in the bleachers, however. "Lieutenant," he called, lifting a hand in greeting.

Lieutenant Welsh looked as surprised to see Fraser as Fraser was to see him, but he gestured for them to join him. Fraser glanced at Ray, who shrugged, which Fraser took as agreement.

Once they were settled in, Fraser sitting between Welsh and Ray, Fraser said, "I'm surprised to see you here, sir. I didn't realize that you had an interest in pugilism."

"Everyone loves boxing, Constable," Welsh answered. "Besides, I happen to know one of the trainers."

Fraser was about to ask who he meant, when his question was answered by the arrival of the two fighters and their entourages. "Detective Huey."

Welsh smiled and nodded. "He's been working with the kid for over a year now. Says he's the best he's ever trained."

Fraser had been unaware that Huey was training anyone at all, but he kept that observation to himself as Ray broke into the conversation to add, "The other coach's name is Franco Devlin. He's a legend around here -- trained more fighters who turned pro than anyone else in Chicago."

"Helluva nice guy, too," Welsh added. He cleared his throat. "Listen, Constable, I'm glad you're here, as there's something I need to discuss with you." He shifted a bit in his seat which, coupled with the throat-clearing, seemed to indicate that he was in some degree of discomfort about what it was he had to say. "Fraser, you remember last week when I told you that our department was under investigation?"

"Yes, sir. I believe the key piece of evidence centered around Ray Vecchio."

"That's right. And, of course, we couldn't produce Ray Vecchio for questioning, as he no longer lives in the fair city of Chicago."

"Right, sir," Fraser answered, dread rising up in the pit of his stomach. This did not sound promising.

"As it happens, Ray Vecchio couldn't be found in New York, either."

"Because he didn't like it enough to stay," Fraser said slowly, remembering the cover story.

"Exactly. The question is, where did he go next?"

Lieutenant Welsh stared at Fraser as if he expected Fraser to have an answer for the question. "If I may be so bold, sir, where _did_ he go next?"

"Canada."

"_Canada_?"

"Yep. A man matching Ray Vecchio's description and carrying a passport in Ray Vecchio's name crossed the border into Canada a few hours after you called me at the station."

Fraser glanced around, but no one was paying them the slightest attention; even Ray appeared to be totally focused on the ring. Leaning into the Lieutenant, Fraser asked softly, "Am I to understand that there's a man claiming to be Ray Vecchio currently in Canada?"

"I can't speak to that," Welsh answered. "But I do know that a man matching Ray Vecchio's description but carrying a passport with the name of Vincent Mallone entered the US the next day at the border crossing in Michigan."

"Ah," Fraser said. "Perhaps you shouldn't be telling me this, sir. I am, after all, tasked with upholding Canadian laws."

"Normally I wouldn't risk your sensibilities," Welsh answered. "But as it happens, I have a favor to ask of you. A very large favor."

Oh dear. "Yes?"

"IA knows that you've been on leave for the past few weeks. They also know that you and Vecchio are close." Welsh leaned in a little closer. "What I need you to do is come in to the station tomorrow and announce that you have returned."

"Returned from where, sir?"

"From your leave."

"Ah. And then?"

"Well, I believe IA is going to ask to question you at that point. All I want you to do is to tell them that you haven't seen Ray Vecchio in over a month and that you spent your vacation here, in Chicago."

"But I haven't seen Ray Vecchio in over a month and I did spend my vacation here in Chicago."

Welsh smiled and sat upright, all of his earlier tension gone. "Exactly. That's what makes it such a good story."

Fraser stared at him. "I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

"Muddying the waters, Constable. Muddying the waters. If we get them muddy enough, they won't be able to see anything, much less the truth."

Fraser opened his mouth to point out the dubious morality of such a suggestion, but he was interrupted by a bell ringing and an answering roar from the crowd. Conflicted, but seeing no benefit to attempting to shout above the enthusiastic fans, Fraser settled in to watch the fight.

Judging from the placement of the boxers and the coaches, Fraser determined that the smaller fighter was the boy Detective Huey had trained. He was a handsome young man, but surprisingly slender for a boxer, and his opponent was both taller and heavier. It was hard to imagine how the two of them had ended up in the same weight class.

Unsurprisingly, considering the disparity in size, Huey's fighter was taking a brutal beating, and after two and a half rounds the outcome of the fight seemed obvious. Suddenly, however, the opponent dropped his guard and swayed on his feet. Huey's fighter immediately took advantage of the situation and a few seconds later the opponent was knocked out.

Fraser frowned; something seemed very off about this situation. As yellow clad men flooded the ring with smiles and cheers and purple clad men scowled and muttered at the other end, Fraser eased his way over to the side of the opponent, who was still unconscious. The doctor examining him looked grim.

"Hey, is he all right?" Huey's fighter asked.

Before the doctor could answer, a man in a purple shirt and hat moved well into the fighter's personal space. "Haven't you done enough? Leave him alone."

"Man, I just want to see if he's all right!" Huey's fighter shouted back, his puffed out chest nearly colliding with the chest of the man opposite. Fraser was strongly reminded of the one time he'd seen a cock fight.

Detective Huey and Lieutenant Welsh waded in, a company of uniformed officers behind them. Fraser felt a tug on his arm and he turned to find Ray watching the melee. "Come on, Fraser. There's nothing we can do here."

"Actually, Ray--"

"Fraser!"

Fraser sighed. "Yes, Ray."

They were almost home when he remembered his manners. "Thank you for taking me to the match."

Ray snorted. "Yeah, I know you're just the type of guy who likes to watch a man get beaten half to death." He sighed. "It's a shame, because that guy had a lot of potential. Both of those guys. Do you think he'll make it?"

Presumably they were talking about the unconscious man. "I can't speak for sure, of course, but he did not appear to be hit hard enough to cause permanent injury."

"Sometimes it don't look as hard as it is," Ray pointed out quietly.

Fraser had to admit the truth of that.

They were silent for the rest of the trip.

ooo

The next morning, Fraser woke at five, as was usual. After quietly speeding through his typical morning routine of running Diefenbaker, calisthenics, shower, and breakfast, he placed the cell phone on the dresser within easy reach of Ray's bed and made his way out the door. It was earlier than his wont, but the police station was considerably further away than the consulate and he didn't want to arrive late.

Oddly enough, however, when he arrived at the station, he found it deserted. Frowning deeply, he began checking rooms, sending Diefenbaker down the hall to check those. All empty.

He was starting to get that overly-alert sensation that came with a surge of adrenaline, when he heard some muffled shouting coming from the direction of the break room. Hurrying that way, Fraser found himself in the bullpen, staring through the open break room door to an assembly in progress. A very loud, very angry assembly. The word 'strike' featured prominently in the discussion.

"Organized labor," Lieutenant Welsh's voice said from behind him. "What do you think?"

Fraser eyed the chaos dubiously. "To be honest, it appears very disorganized." He turned to his friend. "I keep hearing the word strike."

"Oh no," Welsh said. "That would be illegal."

Welsh began to explain the phenomenon of 'blue flu', but he was interrupted by a ringing phone and, since the only other person in the bullpen was Detective Huey, who was currently speaking angrily into his handset, Welsh himself was forced to take the call. As he did so a rather belligerent young woman came in, soon followed by a trio of children. Since Welsh and Huey were on the phone and Fraser was wearing his uniform, clearly marking him as someone who did not work at this station, the family ended up seeking assistance in the break room. Unfortunately, through a misunderstanding, the woman found herself at the wrong end of an entire station's worth of firearms.

As the children ignored the weapons to ask their mother for money to buy candy from the vending machine (in the process displaying a level of innocence of weaponry that Fraser found rather suspect, considering the ages of the children in question and the American penchant for filling movies with gunfights, whether they fit the plotline or not), Fraser stepped into the fray. It took but a few words to ameliorate the tension and soon Fraser and the woman stepped back into the bullpen to discuss her situation.

"Thank you," the woman said. "They seemed a little on edge, and I don't have time to get shot today." She held out her hand. "Janet Morse, bounty hunter."

Fraser took the hand and noted its firm grip. "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

Both Welsh and Huey ended their phone calls at this point. Huey picked up the folder he was working from and headed in the direction of the Xerox machine. Welsh came over to offer assistance. Fraser listened to the conversation with one ear, while focusing his other ear and both eyes on the children. They certainly seemed to have quite a bit of energy.

Eventually Welsh managed to coax the computer to give up the current address of a Mr. Bradley Torrence, who had been charged with felony weapons possession and who had fled the state of Montana while out on bail. The process seemed to require an excessive amount of swearing, no doubt due to the Lieutenant's lack of familiarity with the system. Elaine, who would usually have accomplished the task with more speed and considerably less foul language, had recently completed the police academy and had not yet been replaced.

By the time the computer search ended, Fraser had come to the conclusion that though the children were exhibiting just a little more than the usual exuberance of children their age, it would not be suitable for them to accompany their mother in the pursuit of a potentially dangerous criminal. For one thing, Fraser found it highly unlikely that they would consent to stay in the car.

Having come to said conclusion, Fraser picked up the nearest non-ringing phone to place a call, though he still kept much of his attention on the children, two of whom were currently banging each other into a filing cabinet. It looked rather unpleasant, but both children involved were smiling.

_Hello?_ Ray sounded half-asleep and Fraser had to suppress a slight smile as he pictured his bedraggled roommate. Ray was probably still in bed and he was undoubtedly in the center of a veritable pile of bed sheets and blankets. Fraser had never met a man who could destroy a bed with the efficacy of Ray Kowalski.

"Good morning, Ray," he answered. "Did you sleep well?"

_What?_ There was the sound of rustling and a grunt. _Fraser, what's wrong? Why're you calling me at o-buttfuck-early in the morning?_

Fraser winced at the language, but said nothing as they'd already had this argument (Fraser had lost when he had to admit that he could not, in fact, claim to be Ray's mother). "I'm afraid I need to ask a favor of you, if you have some free time today."

Ray snorted. _Fraser, my friend, I got nothing to do today but paper the town with resumes, and you know it. Whatta ya need?_

"Well, have you ever considered babysitting?"

_What, as a job? Are you shitting me? Who's gonna hire an alcoholic ex-homeless guy to watch their kids?_

"I was thinking of something rather less formal," Fraser admitted. "For example, you probably wouldn't get paid."

_Oh, right. This is the favor. Sure, I can do that. How many kids?_

"Three."

_Great, bring 'em over. Just give me five minutes to get dressed first._

"Of course, Ray. And thank you kindly."

Ray simply snorted again and hung up.

Ms. Morse was amenable to Fraser's suggestion of a babysitter and, after dropping the children off at the apartment, the two of them continued on to the hotel Mr. Torrence was currently occupying. They discussed the relative merits of bear scat along the way. It was rather enjoyable.

ooo

After half an hour with the little monsters Fraser had dropped off, Ray was having a real hard time remembering why exactly he'd wanted kids in the first place. It started with the littler girl saying she needed to go to the bathroom. The boy went in there with her and about ten seconds later the screaming started. Ray'd rushed in expecting a massacre or something, but they'd both just said they'd seen a spider behind the bathtub. Fair enough. Spiders were kinda scary.

But then, _then_, the kids ran out and slammed the door behind them and by the time Ray got to it, they'd found some way to jam it shut.

Ray'd banged on the door for a few minutes and when that didn't do any good (and with the horrifying image of those two little bastards getting into his chocolate stash and getting _really_ hyper), Ray'd ended up taking the hinges off the door with Fraser's straight blade. It ruined the razor, of course, but Ray figured if he was going to suffer, then Fraser should suffer, too. Plus it'd gotten suspiciously quiet in the apartment, and Ray really didn't want to come out to find the kids had jumped out the window or something.

They hadn't jumped out the window but, judging from the expression on Dief's face as the little girl tied ribbons in his fur and the little boy lifted one leg to look where he really had no business looking, they might just be going out a window sooner rather than later. Ray winced and carefully mouthed _You'll get something special in your kibble bowl later._

Dief huffed, which Ray took to mean that 'something special' damn well better mean 'filet mignon and eight layer chocolate cake'.

That actually sounded really good. Ray's stomach rumbled. "Hey, kids. Who's hungry?"

"I am!" the two youngest shouted, abandoning Dief. The wolf promptly scrambled to his feet and ran to the bedroom, probably to hide under one of the beds.

Ray shook his head and went to the refrigerator to see what was available. Day old sandwiches and greasy tuna fish. Huh. Well, hungry kids would eat anything, right?

"I'm full," the youngest girl announced after a single bite of turkey on wheat. "What's for dessert?"

Ray hung his head and reminded himself that being really, really annoying wasn't a good enough reason for justifiable homicide.

Dief, apparently having heard the word 'dessert' (Ray sometimes thought that that deafness thing was just Dief's way of getting out of obeying orders he didn't want to follow), crept out of the bedroom and woofed hopefully. Ray noticed that all the ribbons had mysteriously disappeared.

And then he had a stroke of genius. "Tell you what, kids. Anyone who beats Dief at a race gets candy."

The kids cheered.

"And if Dief wins, _he_ gets the candy."

Dief yipped a couple of times and ran to the door.

"But I thought candy was bad for dogs," the boy said.

"I think Dief's built up an amenity to it over time," Ray said dryly.

The boy frowned and the older girl (Ray thought her name might be Annie, but he liked to think of her as the one who probably wasn't going to drive him batshit crazy) said, "Don't you mean immunity?"

Ray scowled. "Amenity, immunity, whatever. Who wants to go to the park?"

Dief scratched the door. "Okay, that's one for the park. Anyone else?"

The boy and the little girl (Ray liked to think of them as the spawn of the devil), ran to join Dief at the door. Dief sidled over till he was just outside of the reach of either of them.

Annie heaved a sigh as if she was above all of this, but she moved quick enough once Ray got the door open.

One of the main reasons Ray'd managed to get Fraser to agree to the apartment was the fact that there was a pretty good sized park within walking distance, even by Ray's definition of walking distance. It wasn't much compared to Canada or anything, but it took up a block or so and had a nice big grassy area in the middle where people could picnic when it was warmer. Today, what with it being cold enough to see your freaking breath, the park was mostly empty, except for a few kids over at the playground near the parking lot. "Okay, kids," Ray said once they reached the edge of the park. "See that tree over there?" he asked, pointing to the other side of the picnic area. "Anyone who beats Dief there and back wins chocolate. And I'll even give you guys a head start."

The little kids looked thrilled and got down like they were about to sprint. Annie stuck her nose in the air, but bent her knees a little.

"On your mark," Ray said, grabbing Dief lightly by the ruff. Dief grumbled, but sat down. "Get set. Go!"

The kids took off running. As soon as they were out of earshot, Ray squatted next to Dief. "Don't win by too much," he said, looking Dief in the eye. "We want to hustle them into doing this at least twice, okay?"

Dief huffed, licked Ray on the nose, which, ew, and took off running at about half his usual speed. Ray smirked and kept an eye out for perverts, just in case.

After two races Ray managed to talk the kids into a third and this time Dief let them win, mainly because Ray promised him M&M's for a week if he did. It was worth the loss of his stash to have the kids collapse on the sofa when they got home, especially when the two evil kids went to sleep right after eating their chocolate.

Now that she wasn't showing off for her brother and sister, Annie put down her book and started poking around the room. Ray kept an eye on her from the kitchen, where he was looking through this week's classifieds and trying to figure out if he knew anyone in one of the big unions who might be able to help him get a foot in the door.

"Who's this?" Annie asked, picking up the only picture in either room. It had been carefully arranged in a pretty wooden frame that had taken Fraser three days and fifteen thrift shops to find. Ray knew because he'd been dragged along to every freaking one of them. "With Mr. Fraser, I mean."

"It's a friend of his," Ray said flatly. "They used to work together."

"They don't work together anymore?"

Ray shrugged. "He moved."

"Oh." Annie put the picture down and sighed. "Do you have a TV or anything?"

Damn, that probably meant she was bored. "You don't want to take a nap?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm thirteen," she said snootily. "I don't take naps." Then she slumped. "Any books? I finished mine."

"We have books," Ray said with relief. Fraser had insisted, and they'd ended up going to a library book sale where everything was under a buck. Ray'd never even heard of most of the ones Fraser picked out, but when he pointed Annie to the bedroom she made happy sounds and came back out with a couple of books tucked under one arm.

Ray watched her long enough to be sure she wasn't going to beat the other two kids to death with the books (in which case Ray wasn't sure if he'd stop her or help her), then turned his attention back to the picture of Fraser and Vecchio. He hadn't really looked at it very closely before; it irritated him to see it there and once or twice he'd even found himself wishing that the picture had been at Fraser's apartment, rather than at the consulate, on the night of the fire. Then he'd felt guilty about it, which just made him hate the picture more.

Now, though, he found himself staring at it, picking up details that he hadn't noticed before. For one thing, it was larger than a regular picture (which was why Fraser'd had such a tough time finding a frame), but not by much. In fact, it sort of looked like a postcard.

Ray snuck a glance at Annie, who was reading her book, and quickly flipped the picture over to remove the back of the frame. It _was_ a postcard, with the address of Vecchio's precinct, a Vegas postmark, and a six word message: "Cold out here. Heat me up." The paper was an uneven brown, kind of like someone had run a flame over it.

Ray frowned. He didn't think Fraser was the kind of guy to have his picture taken with a friend so it could be turned into a postcard.

Though, if they weren't just friends...

No. Fraser said that he and Vecchio weren't fucking, and Fraser never lied.

Still, there was that weird-ass conversation Fraser and Welsh had had last night when they thought Ray wasn't paying any attention. Something about an IA investigation and a guy that looked like Vecchio going into Canada and then coming out again under a different name.

Ray's frown deepened. Something wasn't adding up here. On the one hand you had Fraser and Vecchio, who worked together and who everyone said were best friends and who might have been having sex that wasn't fucking (Fraser did do that lying of admission thing all the time). On the other hand you had Vecchio leaving to go to New York City, except he wasn't in New York City any more, and apparently he wasn't in Canada, and not only did Welsh know this, but he was going to lie to Internal Affairs about it. And on that same hand or maybe on another, other hand, Vecchio hadn't contacted Fraser except for this postcard and Fraser seemed to think that that was expected and hadn't tried to contact Vecchio back.

And then there was this postcard with the Vegas postmark. If Vecchio had been in New York City a couple of months ago, how the fuck was he sending postcards from Las Vegas?

Unless, of course, he wasn't in New York. Maybe he'd never been in New York.

Ray was turning that thought over in his mind when Fraser and the devil spawn's mother came in. Ray pressed his lips together so he wouldn't ask her just what Satan was like in the sack.

Then Fraser opened his mouth and announced that the bounty hunter and the devil spawn were going to be spending the night, and Ray decided he'd much rather kick her in the head.

ooo

Fraser was having a terribly confusing day. It started with his rather unpleasant introduction to the phenomenon of blue flu. Appalling as the existence of this mythical flu was, however, it was directly responsible for Fraser providing meaningful assistance in an investigation for the first time in months, for which he was profoundly grateful. Even better was his new colleague, who not only had a fascinating employment history, but who was also one of the few people he'd met in the United States who could fully appreciate the value inherent in animal scat.

Just as Fraser had started to believe he'd found a kindred spirit, however, Ms. Morse stole three hundred dollars from the belongings of the fugitive they were pursuing. Fraser had been absolutely flabbergasted. Even in the United States it wasn't common for persons to perpetuate theft while in the immediate presence of an officer of the law.

A car chase, involving multiple weapons and vehicles, ensued. Mr. Torrence had escaped with the newly arrived criminals, taking his money with him. Ms. Morse had seemed surprisingly upset by the fact that the man had taken back money that was, by all rights, his own.

From Mr. Torrence's motel room they had gone directly to the precinct, only to find it as bereft of employees as before. Though labor disputes rarely ended quickly, Fraser had hoped to find the station at least minimally staffed. Unfortunately that proved not to be the case. In fact, the only two officers visible in the bullpen were Lieutenant Welsh and Detective Huey. Ms. Morse had muttered something under her breath and gone to find a bathroom. Fraser took advantage of her absence to knock on Lieutenant Welsh's door.

Welsh looked up and smiled wearily. "Ah, finally a welcome face. Come in, Constable."

Fraser stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but I understood that Internal Affairs would--"

Welsh waved his hand for silence. "Not to worry, Constable. It appears IA is currently suffering from the same malady that has brought down our own bullpen."

"Ah," Fraser answered. "I'm sorry to hear it, sir."

"Don't be," Welsh answered. "It's the first good thing to come out of this mess."

Fraser frowned. "Are you sure, sir? It would seem to me that the loss of the primary--"

"Fraser."

Fraser stopped talking.

"It's a good thing."

Fraser sighed. "Yes, sir."

Welsh nodded decisively. "Now, how are things going with the lady bounty hunter?"

"Not very well," Fraser admitted. "We were ambushed immediately after searching Mr. Torrence's motel room. Shots were fired."

Welsh closed his eyes for a moment. "Constable, did I or did I not instruct you to cease being a target for every bad guy in town carrying a pistol?"

"Well, in point of fact, sir, at least one of the weapons fired was a shotgun."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Welsh said, and it looked suspiciously like he was gritting his teeth. "You, on the other hand, will go find a free computer and write up a report about this incident. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Fraser said, coming to attention.

Welsh just shook his head and waved for Fraser to leave.

"There's one other thing, sir."

"Yes, Constable?"

"I was hoping you could direct me to a reasonably priced car rental agency."

Welsh leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking quite interested. "And may I ask why you suddenly have a need for a vehicle?"

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, sir, as it would involve speculation on an event that may or may not come to pass."

Welsh nodded seriously. "Well, in that case, Constable, I have a proposition for you."

ooo

Having wrapped up the discussion of the car, Fraser was heading for Ray Vecchio (and, subsequently, Frankie Vecchio)'s old desk, when he found himself intercepted by Detective Huey. "Fraser, you got a minute?"

"Of course, Detective. Several, in fact."

Judging from Huey's expression, he did not appreciate the witticism. Fraser cleared his throat. "How may I assist you?"

"It's the Jamal Martin case. Technically I'm not supposed to be working on it, but the union's looking the other way as long as I don't use my badge or expect any backup." He sighed. "Could you maybe look at the file for me? I feel like I'm spinning my wheels."

"I'd be delighted," Fraser answered, though he had to forcibly restrain himself from a more exuberant response. It would be inappropriate under these circumstances.

After looking through the file for several minutes, Fraser cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I don't see mention of this in the file, but I did want to ask after the fighter who was injured during the match. Mr. Martin's brother I believe?"

Huey slumped in his seat. "Yeah, Devon Martin. He's still in a coma. They don't know if he'll ever wake up."

Fraser worried his lower lip for a moment. "And yet, it didn't appear that he'd been struck with an inordinate amount of force." Huey perked up at those words and eyed Fraser hopefully. Fraser shifted his weight slightly, but decided it would harm no one at this juncture to state his suspicions. "Do you remember shortly before Mr. Martin's collapse? He had been fighting well and was, in fact, winning, when suddenly his guard dropped, leaving himself utterly open to attack. At the time I suspected an amateurish attempt to lose the bout for some unknown reason, but now I see that it could have been a momentary weakness preceding a stroke or some other internal disorder."

"What you're saying is that Levon didn't hurt him," Huey said with an obvious improvement in his spirits. A moment later, however, he sighed. "Fraser, the kid is only nineteen. Not a lot of risk factors for a stroke at nineteen."

This next part was purely Fraser's own speculation, but at least it was something that could be easily verified. "There are some steroids that can cause dizziness, muscle weakness, coma, and even death."

"You think he was using?" Hey asked, brightening. "I hadn't considered it because he's one of Devlin's kids, but..."

Personally, Fraser thought it highly unlikely that an athlete, especially one who spent a considerable amount of one-on-one time with his trainer, such as a boxer, could use steroids without his coach's complicity, but he didn't have a chance to say so before Huey took the file and hurried out the door. Fraser sighed and hoped for the best for Huey's young fighter.

Fraser had nearly finished the report Lieutenant Welsh had requested when Ms. Morse entered the bullpen, looking very much like the cat who had swallowed the canary. He had a very good idea as to the reasoning behind her expression, and so when she asked about possible accommodations, it wasn't only good manners -- as if he would even consider suggesting a parking garage, for heaven's sake, what did the woman take him for? -- that prompted him to issue an invitation.

It wasn't until he informed Ray of said invitation, only to see Ray's face go white and then red, that Fraser realized that he might have miscalculated.

"Fraser, can I see you outside for a second?" Ray asked through gritted teeth.

"Of course, Ray," Fraser answered. He smiled comfortingly at Ms. Morse, who was frowning, and stepped back into the hallway.

Ray followed close on his heels and as soon as the door was shut he snapped, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Fraser opened his mouth to explain, but Ray kept on talking. "Where do you get off inviting people to _our_ apartment without asking first? I mean it's bad enough that you dumped her kids off on me all day -- by the way, we owe Dief a steak dinner and you, buddy, are paying -- but the entire family? Overnight? What are we, a halfway house?"

Ray stopped for breath and Fraser took advantage of the brief pause. "Ray--"

An odd expression, one that Fraser would have called crafty, had it made any sense in this situation, flashed across Ray's face. A moment later, Ray slumped and his anger drained away, making him appear as weary as he had been that first day Fraser had seen him on the streets. "Oh, who the fuck am I kidding?" Ray asked, rubbing his face with his hands. "It's not my apartment. Not yet, anyway, not when you paid for everything in it." He made a painful-sounding attempt at a laugh. "Hell, I owe you way more than a day of babysitting." He sighed, looking a good ten years older than his thirty-five years. "Look, I'm sorry I shouted at you, Fraser. If you want me to move out, just tell me. I won't kick up a fuss." Ray stopped talking and stared at Fraser belligerently, arms crossed in front of his chest, and looking terribly vulnerable.

Fraser wasn't quite sure how they had gotten from anger to Ray asking if he were going to be evicted from his own home, but he did know that there was one point that needed to be cleared up immediately. "Ray, I don't want you to move out."

Ray suddenly relaxed and dropped his arms and Fraser was appalled to realize that Ray had honestly thought that Fraser would send him back out on the streets. "Okay," Ray said hoarsely. "Okay. Thanks."

Fraser had always been frankly awful at offering comfort, but seeing Ray standing there looking tired and friendless, he couldn't help but pull his friend forward into an embrace. Ray's arms immediately clutched Fraser in return, holding him in a grip so tight that Fraser's ribs ached.

The door to the apartment suddenly opened and Ms. Morse leaned out. "Maybe the kids and I should-- oh."

Fraser started back at the interruption, feeling his face burn. He suspected that at this moment he was as bright red as his uniform.

Ray, on the other hand, looked perfectly comfortable. Perhaps even a bit smug, though that made no sense that Fraser could see. "No, it's all right," Ray said. "You and the kids can stay here for the night."

Ms. Morse nodded slowly. "Speaking of the kids, how did you get Robbie and Sue to go to sleep? I can never get them to take a nap during the day."

"Kowalski family secret," Ray answered. "So, like I said, you guys can stay, but I'm not sure what we're going to do about food. The kids kind of cleaned us out at lunch."

Ray's face turned a little pink as he spoke, and Ms. Morse looked equally uncomfortable. Fraser spoke up quickly to forestall any further embarrassment. "How about pizza?" he suggested. "My treat."

Two pairs of wide, grateful eyes turned to him and Fraser found himself struggling to not shuffle his feet. "I'm sure the kids would be thrilled," Ms. Morse said. "Thanks." She went back into the apartment and approximately three seconds later cheering broke out.

Ray stayed in the hallway and stared at Fraser. "I-- I mean, it's been-- And I just--" He made a frustrated sound and lifted a hand as if to touch Fraser, but at the last second dropped it again. "Thanks, Frase," he said and then he quickly turned to enter the apartment.

Fraser remained in the hallway for another moment, savoring the inexplicable yet compelling warmth that was billowing up in his chest.

ooo

Fraser ordered an obscene amount of pizza and he didn't even laugh when Ray asked for pineapple on his (not that he got it -- apparently Tony was holding a grudge over Ray's two year absence or some other such shit). Ray'd wolfed down his first two slices in just a few bites (he hadn't had breakfast, after all, and those sandwiches hadn't looked any better to him than it had to the kids), but after that he slowed down so he could appreciate the taste.

Mmm. He hadn't cared much what he'd eaten while on the streets (and looking back, there were some things that he'd gladly forget had ever gone near his mouth), but now that he was eating his favorite food for the first time in two years, he could admit how much he'd missed it. He could kiss Fraser for this idea.

Not that he didn't want to kiss Fraser all the time anyway.

Ray frowned and took another slice.

By the time everyone was stuffed to the gills, they'd managed to clean out most of the five large pizzas. Ray felt like passing out or maybe throwing up, but it was worth it for the expression on Fraser's face as he took in the pile of empty boxes. Even better, right after dinner Janet announced that it was bedtime and, after a minimal amount of fuss from Ray (who'd had his fill of banging his head against the wall of Mountie politeness, but who still had a reputation to uphold, thank you very much), she and the evil kids took over the bedroom.

"And you'll take the couch, of course," Fraser said as the bedroom door closed.

"Like hell," Ray snapped back. Well, he tried to snap. It was kinda hard when it felt like his guts were about to explode all over the living room.

"Ray," Fraser said, in that irritating I'm-right-and-you're-dumber-than-shit-(but-I'm-Canadian-so-I'll-just-call-you-'interesting') voice. "You're still recovering from a gunshot wound."

"Whatever, Fraser. I finished the physio already, that makes me cured."

"Honestly, Ray, we both know you left the hospital several days before--"

"Oh, no, Fraser, you do not get to bring that up _again_. Just because--"

Diefenbaker woofed, climbed to his feet (managing to hit both Ray and Fraser in the legs several times while doing so), trotted into the living room and jumped up onto the couch. He turned a couple of times and then flopped down right in the center with a huff.

"Diefenbaker!" Fraser said, sounding appalled.

Ray just laughed. "I think the mutt's making a point. Besides, that's where he usually sleeps anyway. Might as well let him have it."

"But, Ray, your arm--"

"Is fine. Now shut up about it so we can go to sleep already."

Of course, the ironical thing about the whole sleeping on the floor thing was that they ended up sleeping much closer to each other than usual, due to the whole not having a dresser between them thing. In fact, they were lying so close together that Ray could smell Fraser and, if he reached out with his left arm, he could touch Fraser's shoulder.

Ray thought about doing that, about reaching out, about pulling Fraser into a hug like the one they'd had out in the hallway just before dinner. That had been a damn good hug. Best hug Ray'd ever had, even if Ray'd had to do a bit if manipulating to give Fraser the idea.

The hug had been so good, in fact, that Ray was starting to get hard just from the memory of it. Unfortunately, while Ray liked the idea of having a hard-on again, he really, really didn't like the idea of making a pass at Fraser and having Fraser turn him down. Or, maybe just as bad, having Fraser not even notice. There was clueless and there was oblivious and then there was Fraser: practically dead.

"Don't worry," Fraser whispered out of the blue. "It's just for a little while."

Practically dead and completely off his nut, apparently. "Fraser, what the hell are you talking about?" Ray hissed.

"Well, you see, Ray, while Ms. Morse and I searched Mr. Torrence's motel room, I discovered--"

"Wait. Does this involve mud?"

"As a matter of fact--"

"What about licking?"

"Yes, that too."

"Then I don't wanna know. Just tell me what happens next."

"I believe Ms. Morse intends to sneak out as soon as her children fall asleep and go to the Circle J stables on the south-eastern side of town. Through the...well, through means you don't wish me to explain, I discovered that Mr. Torrence worked at a stables and I'm confident Ms. Morse made the same discovery. As the Circle J is, by far, the closest stables to Mr. Torrence's place of residence, it is likely that that is where he works. Ms. Morse clearly came to the same conclusion, and I believe her early retirement to bed is an attempt to disguise her intention to visit the stables tonight. I plan to follow her."

"_You_ plan to follow her? What about me?"

"I thought you might stay and keep an eye on the children."

"Like hell."

"They can't be left alone, Ray."

"Fine. Diefenbaker can watch them then."

Diefenbaker whined.

"And you can buy him pizza for a week," Ray added.

Diefenbaker yipped.

Ray crossed his arms and sent a smug look in Fraser's direction.

"Oh, fine," Fraser huffed and Ray's smirk grew into a grin.

"How are we going to follow her, anyway?"

"Lieutenant Welsh was kind enough to lend me a car from the precinct's motor pool. The keys were delivered just after the pizza arrived."

"He's letting you use a cop car?" Ray asked doubtfully. "Is that even legal?"

"Not normally, no. However, he reassured me that there are exceptions for times of emergency, such as the entire police force being stricken with the flu."

"Huh," Ray said. He could've added more, but he really wasn't looking forward to the thought of walking to Chicago's south side. "So when can we leave?"

"A few more minutes."

They sat there silently for several seconds, Ray thinking about the hug with Fraser, the upcoming stakeout with Fraser, and if he were lucky, a hug on the stakeout with Fraser. Maybe even a kiss? Well, maybe not a kiss. At least not until he was a hundred percent sure that Fraser was at least bi.

"Ray?"

"Hm?"

There was a long silence. "Never mind."

Ray sighed. "Can we go yet?"

"I think that might be a good idea."

ooo

The drive to the stables that Mr. Torrence worked at was nearly silent. Since Ray was equipped with an American license and was, without question, the one with more experience in this particular arena, Fraser asked him to drive. Ray took the keys without comment and drove with a level of focus on traffic safety that impressed even Fraser. Fraser had a suspicion that this wasn't typical of Ray's driving practices, but he could hardly harass the man for above average driving skills. In the end, Fraser said nothing.

Instead, he thought about the hug. That amazing, wonderful hug. And, more disturbing, his body's highly inappropriate reaction to said hug. He could just imagine Ray's reaction if he learned that Fraser had become aroused from something as simple as a friendly embrace. If it were anything like Fraser's own reaction to being pawed by any number of indiscreet women (and the occasional indiscreet man), then there was every chance that Ray would leave the apartment and never return.

The answer to the dilemma was obvious, albeit painful. Fraser would simply have to ensure that Ray never learned of Fraser's attraction to him.

Fraser stifled a sigh and turned to stare out the side window with far more concentration than the derelict buildings and rusting cars deserved.

ooo

Fraser could never understand the sheer number of car chases he found himself involved in. It seemed quite outside the normal range experienced by other officers in the Chicago PD; most officers could honestly say that they'd never been on a car chase in the entire course of their career.

In this particular instance, Fraser and Ray had just found Ms. Morse in the stables when Fraser heard the unmistakable sound of a car's ignition. He ran to intercept the vehicle, only to find that Mr. Torrence clearly had no intention of stopping before hitting Fraser head-on. As a result, Fraser was forced to clamber over the car as it drove through the spot he'd been standing.

A moment later came the equally unmistakable sound of car tires 'blowing out' as Ray Vecchio would have said. Fraser turned around to see Mr. Torrence's car careening into a fence. Ray watched from one side, small bag in hand and a smug smile on his face. Ms. Morse ran to the car from the other direction, weapon drawn. "Hello, sweetheart," she said to Mr. Torrence as he climbed out of the car and froze, hands in the air.

As the situation seemed well in hand, Fraser walked over to Ray. "Hey, careful!" Ray shouted. "There's nails all over the ground."

Fraser looked down to see that, yes, the ground was covered in nails. E-style horseshoe nails, in fact, and Fraser was quite certain that they hadn't been on the ground when he and Ray had first arrived.

"Ray, where did these nails come from?"

Ray grinned and held up the small leather bag in his hand. "What can I say, Frase? I learned a lot about using what's available in the last two years."

Fraser simply shook his head, but he couldn't help but smile in return.

The rest of the night was full of revelations. The most interesting was the fact that Mr. Torrence was actually Ms. Morse's husband and the father of her children. He was also clearly lacking in rudimentary comprehension of cause and effect; Fraser could think of no other reason why the man would think it a good idea to steal two million dollars from the mafia. A deal was made for information in exchange for a reduced sentence for Mr. Torrence, and Ms. Morse spent an inordinate amount of time explaining her future custody plans with Fraser. It apparently involved a shed in her backyard.

By the time the details of the case were cleared up, Ray dropped off at the apartment, the Torrence children picked up from the apartment, and a highly irritated Diefenbaker placated with promises of pizza for dinner, it was past time for Fraser to be at the consulate. He was sitting at his desk, considering writing himself a reprimand and trying to ignore strange noises coming from the direction of his closet, when Inspector Thatcher entered his office.

Fraser scrambled to his feet. The inspector did not seem to notice, however, as her attention was focused on a file in her hands. "Fraser. The results are in--all in all, quite encouraging. Not surprisingly, my psychological profile was rock solid. Turnbull's mental state was likened to a block of Swiss cheese, but that's hardly news."

Fraser cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone quite dry. "And me, sir?"

Inspector Thatcher's eyes narrowed as she answered. "Acceptable."

Fraser breathed out a silent sigh of relief, though he kept his posture rigid. "I'm relieved to hear that, sir." Suddenly, the rattling and banging in the closet changed to the very distinctive sound of singing. Fraser cleared his throat again. "Um, you don't by any chance happen to hear somebody singing, do you?"

All things considered, it was probably best for everyone that the inspector turned and left without comment.

Unable to ignore the noises from the closet any longer, Fraser opened the door and stepped inside...

...to find himself in the middle of a traditional Canadian cabin, quite like the one the RCMP used for remote stations. Robert Fraser was sitting at a desk along one wall, wearing clothing suitable for the arctic.

"Come on in, son, and shut the door. It's cold out there."

Fraser obediently walked in and shut the door, still staring. "How, how did...when....what is this?"

"It's my office," Bob said brightly. "I would have set it up in your new apartment, but strangely enough it doesn't seem to have any closets."

Fraser dropped his head into his hands and debated the merits of exorcism.

ooo

Ray was just deciding exactly what he wanted on Diefenbaker's (yeah right) pizza when Fraser walked in and hung his hat up on the hook next to the door. "Ray," he said, standing in the living room and looking around with his hands on his hips. "I can't tell you how happy I am that we do not have any closets."

Ray stared at him and thought about telling him that he was a freak, but he didn't bother.

He figured Fraser already knew.


	4. If I Didn't Have Bad Luck

**Chances 4: If I Didn't Have Bad Luck, I'd Have No Luck at All**

The beginning of the end came on a Saturday.

Of course, Ray didn't have a fucking clue that his world was about to come apart at the seams when he woke up late Friday afternoon and rolled out of bed for a quick shower before work. In fact, he was in a pretty good mood seeing as how he and Fraser had a date the next morning. Well, not really a _date_ date (after six months, Ray had finally gotten it through his thick head that nothing like that was gonna be happening with Big Red), more like two buddies hanging out at a mall to look at a pile of Canadian rocks. Still, with Ray working nights and Fraser working days, even a date with a pile of rocks was looking good as long as he got to spend some time with Fraser.

Work was slow that night; a carpet warehouse wasn't exactly a hotbed of criminal activity, but usually Ray managed to roust a homeless guy or two during his rounds. Not tonight, though. Maybe all those guys he was sending over to the Y on Seventh were actually learning. Course, what they were probably learning was that Ray was a hardass. He could live with that.

Hell, even Ray's _lunch break_ was boring: he ate a bowl of Fraser's leftover goulash (almost edible -- Fraser was improving) and did his usual scan of Las Vegas news sites looking for anyone who looked like Ray Vecchio. He found exactly nothing, just like the last five months of searching.

The one spot of excitement in his daily routine -- if by 'excitement' one meant 'slightly less boring than walking circles around a building' -- came during Ray's nightly self-therapy sessions. Ray couldn't actually afford a shrink and, face it, wouldn't have gone to one if he could, but that didn't mean he didn't know he was fucked up. When he was living on the streets, fucked up wasn't a big deal, but now that he was living with Fraser Ray wanted to get his head screwed on straight. He'd lost his wife because he was a shitty husband; he wasn't about to lose Fraser because he was a shitty friend.

That thought in mind, Ray opened his mouth and said, "Stella." As soon as the word was out of his mouth he took a deep, calming breath. He didn't really need to do it anymore, but it had sorta become habit.

When he'd first started doing this a couple of months ago, the word had felt like a punch to his gut. With a sledgehammer. However, after thinking about Stella for hours on end for the last couple of months, Ray was used to the sound of her name and even bringing up a new memory -- today's was a bit of their honeymoon in Niagara Falls, a wedding present from Stella's mom -- didn't make him cry, though his eyes did sting a bit. Maybe he was finally getting better.

Of course, the really weird thing was the way Ray had started associating Stella's name with those deep calming breaths. Once or twice he even caught himself chanting her name under his breath when stressed, sort of like that martini thing Fraser had told him about. Ray hadn't told him that 'stella stella stella' was his martini, though; that probably would have freaked the Mountie right out.

On that cheery note, Ray headed for the door. He still had another four hours to kill. Maybe he'd get lucky and stumble on a dead body or something.

ooo

Ray got home a little after eight, to an empty apartment. There was note on the table, written in Fraser's impossibly perfect handwriting, that said Fraser was already at the mall, helping the Ice Lady (not Fraser's words) get ready. If Ray got there by noon, they could have lunch before the presentation.

Noon was doable; as long as he caught a couple of hours of sleep during the day, Ray'd gotten himself used to staying up until Fraser went to bed Saturday night. It made it harder to get back into the schedule on Monday, but it was worth it for a full Sunday with Fraser.

Fortunately, Ray'd mastered his alarm clock and he was at the mall by lunchtime. He and Fraser (but not Dief, as the mall apparently had issues with a wolf wandering through their food court, begging for scraps -- Turnbull had taken Dief for the day) had some surprisingly good Chinese food while Ray talked about his boring night and Fraser talked about the cultural significance of donating a big pile of rocks to a shopping mall in another country.

What with the murder that happened ten minutes later, the DA losing his damn mind and giving Lieutenant Welsh six hours to solve a murder, and the rest of Fraser's cop buddies losing _their_ damn minds and not immediately calling a lawyer when their suspects asked for one, the day was pretty much shot to hell. And that was even before Fraser accidentally hypnotized all of the material witnesses at the same time, including Ray.

When Ray realized what had happened, he panicked, though he managed to keep his voice sort of casual when he asked, "Did you get anything from me?"

"Well, it would appear that you were abducted by aliens at the age of ten."

Ray froze. What? What the fuck? Was that somehow Mountie speak for 'you revealed your deep and kind of creepy lust for me (what with me being straight and all), but I'm too polite to kick you to the curb, so I'll just pretend it never happened'? If not, what kind of questions had Fraser been asking, and why?

Ray was just about to ask what potential alien abductions and/or Ray's childhood had to do with a mall knifing, when the Ice Queen asked something case related and the conversation moved back onto the suspects. Ray listened with half an ear while the rest of his brain kept racing over what might've happened while Ray had been under. He wasn't real happy with his thoughts.

He was still stewing when the case wrapped up and the Ice Queen started bitching at Fraser about not being fast enough to get to the car. Fraser turned to her and said, "Eggplant."

The Ice Queen's face went slack and her eyes glazed over as she said, "Of course, if you'd like to stay with your friend, that would be quite acceptable. In fact, why don't you take the rest of the day off."

Still in a freaky trance, she turned and walked away.

Fraser turned back to Ray, his eyes twinkling. "It works."

Ray would have smiled back, except: "Did you do that to me? Did you do weird mind-mojo shit to me?"

Fraser promptly blushed and started rubbing his eyebrow. Well that was a big yes. Goddamn it.

Ray turned and walked out, Fraser's voice following him out the door.

ooo

For the fourth straight evening, Fraser walked into a spotless apartment entirely devoid of any roommates. He sighed as he hung up his hat; it had been a long day, and he'd hoped that Ray would be home so they could talk a bit over dinner, before Ray had to go to work. It had been a tradition before the mall incident, an hour or two that both of them had carefully planned to keep free so they could spend them together. Those hours had been the highlights of Fraser's life in the last few months, and he felt the loss of them keenly.

Next to Fraser, Diefenbaker gave a disgusted woof. Fraser rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm aware that it's my own fault. However, I did not mean to upset him. It was merely intended to be a harmless prank."

Dief snorted and headed to the tiny alcove that served as the apartment's kitchen. Fraser rolled his eyes and followed, adding, "I'm quite sure you would not be so firmly on his side if he didn't keep bribing you with donuts."

Diefenbaker huffed, though his face was turned away when Fraser spoke, so the comment could have been unrelated to the conversation.

The kitchen was as tidy as the rest of the apartment: dishes washed and put away, countertop wiped down, sink scrubbed clean. If it weren't for the fact that a dish of leftovers was gone from the refrigerator, Fraser wouldn't be able to tell that Ray had been at home at all. He sighed again. He hadn't spoken to his roommate since the incident, but Ray had clearly found someone to tell him the details of the post-hypnotic suggestion that Fraser had planted in his mind. Why else would Ray have gone from being a careless and sloppy housekeeper to being pristinely neat?

Looking around the kitchen, Fraser had to admit that perhaps his prank had not been as innocent as he would like to tell himself. After six months, Ray's quirks and bad habits were no longer endearing, and more and more Fraser found himself cleaning up after his roommate, sometimes so diligently that he would be washing dishes before Ray had finished eating, or put the cap on the toothpaste while Ray was still brushing his teeth. They'd had a few arguments on this point, with Ray repeatedly claiming that he was perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself if Fraser would just give him a chance, and Fraser asking for specific deadlines -- an hour after dinner? Two? -- by which Ray would have completed his chores. That was about the point when Ray would usually storm out for the evening.

However, Ray'd never stayed angry this long and Fraser's initial worry was starting to grow into outright panic. Only a lifetime of strict self-control kept him from going to the carpet warehouse and forcing a confrontation. All Ray needed was time to calm down. This argument would pass soon enough, just like all the others.

Maybe if he said it often enough to himself, he might begin to believe it.

With a final sigh, Fraser opened up the cupboard and pulled out the ingredients for spaghetti, one of Ray's favorite dishes. It wasn't much of an apology, but until Ray would speak to him, it was the best Fraser could do.

ooo

Another long day that would no doubt be followed by another long evening. Fraser didn't sigh as he pulled the key out of the door and turned the handle, but it was a struggle.

"Hey, Fraser."

Fraser's head shot up, just in time to see Ray sitting on the couch before thirty-five kilograms of eager wolf shoved its way between Fraser's leg and the doorframe. By the time Fraser had regained his balance, Diefenbaker had somehow managed to knock Ray to the floor and was currently licking Ray's face with gleeful abandon.

"Hey! Hey! He--ew! Oh, gross! Dief, stop it!" Ray's flailing hands finally managed to catch Dief's muzzle. "I thought we talked about this, mutt. No licking on the face."

Dief stared into Ray's eyes for a second, then opened his mouth and ran his tongue over Ray's nose.

While Ray flailed some more, Dief scrambled off and trotted to the door. He stopped to give Fraser a smug look before walking back out into the hallway. Apparently he thought Fraser and Ray need to talk.

Fraser could hardly disagree, but he found himself unaccountably nervous. To cover the unexpected emotion, he hung his hat with an unusual degree of care, making sure it lay perfectly flush against the wall. Really, a hook was not the ideal place for his hat, but the lack of closets in the apartment had necessitated some inventive measures, especially for--

"I don't think the hat's going anywhere, Fraser."

Fraser turned to find Ray staring at him, a small smile on his face. "Seriously, a tornado could hit and that hat would still be stuck on the wall."

"I hardly think that--"

Ray rolled his eyes. "Shut it and come to the couch."

Now Fraser sighed, though he could not honestly say that he was sad or annoyed at this moment. "Yes, Ray."

He dithered a moment at the couch, unsure of how close he should sit to Ray. Too far would imply that he was not open to communication. Too close...well, that would be inappropriate. Especially if Ray ever found out just _how_ inappropriate Fraser's thoughts had been of late.

In the end he chose a spot just slightly closer to the arm of the couch than to Ray. A nice, neutral location.

They sat there for a few moment in silence, until Ray said, "Do you want to start or should I?"

"I think it might improve the efficacy of--"

"You or I, Fraser?"

"You. Please."

Ray heaved a great sigh. "Okay. Okay." In his peripheral vision, Fraser saw Ray turn to face him. "Fraser, look at me, please."

Tugging lightly at the collar of his uniform, Fraser did as asked. Ray looked a little paler than usual, his eyes were dull, and his hair was considerably less experimental than it had been the last time Fraser had seen it. Rather surprisingly, the hair was what brought a lump to Fraser's throat. He'd been disconcerted when Ray had first come home with that haircut, the day after getting his first paycheck. It had seemed a frivolous expense, especially at that time when finances had been tight.

In time, Fraser had come to see that Ray's hair was the only completely frivolous expense that his friend allowed himself and, moreover, that Ray himself acted differently, more confidently, when his hair was heavily styled. Fraser had come to the conclusion that Ray's hair in many ways served the same function as Fraser's hat: an emotional shield that provided an illusion of personal safety. As Fraser had found that the illusion often lent itself to reality, he could neither condemn himself for his affection for his hat, nor Ray for his affection for unusual hair.

Plus, it was rather attractive.

"Fraser, why are you staring at my hair?"

Blushing furiously, Fraser brought his attention back to Ray's face. "I'm terribly sorry, Ray. You were saying?"

Ray raised his eyebrows, but after a moment shrugged and said, "Alls I said was that we should do more talking and less of this passive-aggressive shit we seem to be stuck on."

Fraser frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Ray."

"You have heard of 'passive-aggressive', haven't you?"

"I've heard the phrase before, yes, but I understood it to be an oxymo, er, American slang. Perhaps if you gave me an example."

"How about you passively letting me be a slob and then aggressively fucking with my head so every time you say the word 'cauliflower' I go around telling folks what a shitty roommate I am?"

"Ah," Fraser said, blushing even more. "That."

"Yeah, _that_," Ray said aggressively. Then he lowered his head a fraction. "Or, you know, me being upset at you being such a neat-freak but instead of talking about it, I just start messing the place up."

Fraser stared at him. "You mean you have been deliberately leaving our apartment in shambles?"

"Well, I wouldn't say _shambles_, exactly..." Fraser stared at him. "Okay, maybe a little bit messy, but that's not the point here. The point here, Fraser, is that this whole not-talking, passive-aggressive, not-cleaning, mass-hypnotizing, vegetable cauliflower thing is not working. You see what I'm saying?"

"I believe so, Ray. To clarify, you believe we should be discussing our issues with each other, rather than lashing out in a juvenile, unproductive manner."

"Well, yeah, Fraser, but you don't got to be insulting about it."

"I'm terribly sorry, I meant no offense."

"Yeah, yeah. Look, you clearly got issues with me, so why don't you go first."

Oh. Oh dear. Fraser cleared his throat. "Are you quite sure you would not rather go first?"

Ray rolled his eyes. "Yes, Fraser, I'm sure. That's why I said 'Fraser, you should go first'."

"Right," Fraser answered, fighting the urge two wring his hands together. He really wished he'd kept his hat in his possession. "Well...I..." He cleared his throat and forced his hands to rest flat against his pants. "Ray, I... Must I go first?"

Ray shook his head. "It's funny, Fraser. You'll happily confront any gun-packing criminal you meet on the street, but you can't face up to an argument with your roomie?"

Well, when he put it that way. Fraser flushed, but forced himself to say, "Ray, I really wish you'd take on more responsibility for the cleanliness of our apartment."

"See now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No, indeed." Fraser smiled. "In fact, I feel considerably better for clearing the air."

"Good," Ray said with a smile. "My turn?"

"Of course."

"Okay then." Ray's smile disappeared and fury flared in his eyes. "Fraser, I wish you would tell me what the fuck you were thinking poking around in my head after I flat-out said that I didn't want to be hypnotized."

Fraser jerked back as if slapped. "I--I didn't intentionally hypnotize you, Ray."

"No, I know. But once I was hypnotized, you figured you might as well ask me about the case, right?"

"Right."

Ray nodded as if that confirmed something he knew. "So how did my childhood come up, Frase? Did I see an alien in the mall and that reminded me of a nightmare I had when I was ten? Or had my ten-year-old self somehow traveled through time to show up at the mall just as some mob boss got murdered?"

"No, of course not, Ray--"

"Then _what_?" Ray shouted. He stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Fraser sat and watched, unwilling to say anything at all for fear of worsening the situation.

When Ray was calm, he opened his eyes and said levelly, "What you did to me, Fraser -- that wasn't buddies. That was so far from buddies that there isn't even a word for how bad that was. Do you understand? You fucked with my head, and let's face it, my head really doesn't need to be fucked up any more than it already is."

"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser said with a hint of desperation. "I never considered how you would react to my actions. I intended no harm and I deeply apologize for my error."

Ray took another deep breath, muttering something under his breath in the process. This time when he opened his eyes, they were calm. "Okay, buddy, I know you mean it. And I know you'll never do it again, right?"

"Never," Fraser answered fervently.

"Good enough," Ray said with a sharp nod. He climbed off of the couch and headed into the kitchen. "How about I cook tonight? Chicken okay with you?"

"That sounds wonderful," Fraser called absently. He moved to the kitchen to add, "Ray?"

"Yeah, Fraser?"

"Are we...still buddies?" Fraser held his breath, waiting for Ray's answer.

It was a few seconds in coming, but when Ray spoke, his words sounded sincere. "Not just buddies, Fraser. You're the best friend I've ever had." He turned to look Fraser in the eye. "Which is why you shouldn't've done what you did."

"I fully understand the error of my ways," Fraser said quickly.

"Good," Ray said. "Then we don't gotta talk about it anymore. Pass me the paprika."

ooo

Ray didn't bring up the whole hypnotizing thing again, just like he said he wouldn't, but it was hard to get the whole mess out of his mind. He wasn't even sure why it was upsetting him so much -- he wasn't this pissed off when it first happened, but every day since he got a little more angry until he just wanted to slug Fraser.

At least their little talk had gotten that out of his system. The way Ray felt about Fraser...well, hitting him would have been like hitting Stella, and Ray would rather cut off his own hand than hit Stella. Hell, hitting her had never even occurred to him while they were married, but time on the streets changed a man. It made him tough. Mean.

Especially if you couldn't remember everything you did while you were out there.

Ray still remembered those two men dragging him into the alley, the stink of alcohol on their breath and their sick, twisted threats as they fumbled with the buttons on his pants.

He remembered the next morning, waking up three miles away, his hands coated in dried blood that flaked away as he clenched his fists.

He remembered the relief he felt as he realized that his clothes were still in one piece and that he wasn't hurt, inside or out.

He didn't remember what happened to the men. But there was the blood. And the fact that no one on the streets would look him in the eye after that night.

Ray never did find out what had happened. He didn't think he'd killed anyone, there would have been cops on the streets if he had, but beyond that he could have done anything. Anything bad, that is. If it hadn't been horrible, he'd be able to remember.

The Stella mantra (_not_ martini, thank god he hadn't said that to Fraser before figuring out the right word) started making a more regular appearance after Ray and Fraser's fight. Ray found himself more on edge all of the time, more angry and the only thing that calmed him was whispering 'stella, stella, stella' under his breath, over and over again.

So really, he wasn't in the best frame of mind to get picked up by a crazy CIA/FBI/NSA/Whatever-A guy, especially when said guy was driving through Chicago at a hundred and twenty miles an hour and spending most of his time not looking at the road. "Hey!" Ray shouted as he hung on desperately to the seat in front of him. "I thought you said Fraser was in trouble."

"He is, if he is who he says he is, which I'm inclined to think he is, even though his old partner who is no longer his partner is no longer who he says he is."

"Uh," Ray said. "Huh?"

"You know his old partner, the former Ray Vecchio who is now Armando Langoustini, unless you're talking about the new Ray Vecchio, who used to be Frankie Vecchio, and who is now Frankie Vecchio again."

"Right. Listen, can we go back to Fraser? What's wrong with Fraser?"

"What's wrong with Fraser? Everything's wrong with Fraser! He's a Canadian forced to live in the US! He's a whistle blower who was persecuted! He's an uninformed combatant who's going up against the Nautilus!"

"What's a Nautilus?"

"Doesn't matter, doesn't matter. Just you tell Fraser to leave the Nautilus alone before he gets hurt. Now get out!"

Before Ray could answer that, his door opened and the crazy spy-guy took a real sharp turn and somehow Ray found himself sitting on top of a really tall bench.

Oh, wait. There was something on the bench.

"Sorry, sorry," Ray said as he handed a pile of electronics over to a sad-looking teen. "Sorry."

As he walked home, he thought about the strange conversation. Mostly about the Vecchio part of the conversation and about how Ray Vecchio was now Armando Langoustini. The name sounded vaguely familiar, maybe from all those Vegas news articles he'd been reading. Definitely something to look up tonight. Maybe he'd even get lucky and find a picture.

As for Fraser and the Nautilus, Ray wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with that information. Apparently he and his roommate were due for another conversation. That in mind, Ray decided he'd cook dinner, even if it wasn't his turn. Hell, he'd be really nice and cook something healthy. Stir-fry, maybe. Fraser liked Ray's stir-fry.

The rice was nearly done cooking and all of the veggies were chopped when Fraser walked through the door, so's all Ray had to do was heat up the wok (Ray's idea, since he made less of a mess with that than with a saucepan) and start tossing stuff in.

Fraser went to the bedroom to change and by the time he came out, dinner was ready. Like a good Mountie, he started setting the table without saying a word.

He continued not to say a word throughout dinner, though he kept shooting glances at Ray, no doubt confused as to why Ray had suddenly decided he needed to make dinner when it was Fraser's turn. Fraser was pretty protective of his turn to cook. He sucked at it, but apparently he thought it was some kind of challenge or a chance to improve himself or something.

Ray sighed and pushed his food around on his plate. Fraser's silence was just another sign that they still weren't back to where they'd been before, and Ray hated that. He hated that they were fighting, even if they weren't actually fighting anymore. "Fraser," he said abruptly. "Who's the Nautilus?"

Fraser looked surprised for a second, then put down his fork and sat straight up, like someone had suddenly shoved a pipe up his ass. "Ray, may I ask how you heard that name?"

Ray took in the posture and the question and sighed. Shit. Apparently this was a work thing. "Some whack-job in a black Caddy picked me up and told me you were in trouble and that you should stay away from some guy named Nautilus."

Fraser relaxed. "Ah, yes. I also encountered Mr. Pike today, though I'm afraid his information was both misleading and untimely."

"So?" Ray prompted. "Who was he?"

"Well, in point of fact, Ray, the Nautilus was a woman, one of the greatest spies from the American Cold War."

"Oh," Ray said. "Huh."

Fraser smiled encouragingly. "I, too, assumed that the Nautilus was a man, which only goes to show that we have been trained by our upbringings to fill certain roles with one gender or the other. In the future, I will try to avoid this trap."

"Uh, yeah," Ray said, like he understood what all of that stuff meant. "But, you know, I was just kind of surprised when you said the Cold War. She must've been kind of old then, right?"

"Actually, she was, Ray, though still quite spry. She escaped custody, in fact."

"Really? Good for her."

"She was a spy for the enemy," Fraser pointed out. "And she held a friend of mine at gunpoint."

"Oh," Ray said. Jeez, he couldn't get anything right in this conversation. "Bad for her, then. Are you going to be able to find her?"

"I believe she's outside my jurisdiction at the moment," Fraser said, picking his fork back up and turning his attention to his food. "But I have no doubt that Mr. Pike is already on her trail."

"Yeah, okay," Ray said. Then, at a loss for anything else to add, went back to eating.

The rest of dinner was silent.

ooo

That night, Ray spent his rounds brooding over his relationship with Fraser. Or maybe the lack of relationship with Fraser. Or -- well, whatever it was, it was falling apart. Not only were they having a tough time talking to each other, but they didn't have many chances to talk at all, since three nights out of four, Fraser didn't even come home. Ray would've thought it was a woman, except this was Fraser (and, anyway, Fraser would have told him if he'd been seeing someone, wouldn't he?), so that didn't make any sense. On the other hand, if Fraser wasn't sleeping at home, where was he sleeping? His office at the consulate? It was the size of a refrigerator box. He'd have to be sleeping on the desk.

Unfortunately, there weren't a lot of other options, unless Ray was being so obnoxious he'd driven _Fraser_ out on the streets. Wouldn't that do wonder's for Ray's reputation. He could see it now: "Ray Kowalski: such an asshole he made the Mountie homeless".

Fuck. Maybe he should just shoot himself in the head now and get it over with.

After a couple of turns around the building, Ray decided to take an early break. Maybe thinking about Stella would help keep his Fraser obsession in check. First things first, though. Ray settled down in front of the computer, pulled up a search engine, typed in "Armando Langoustini Las Vegas", and hit enter. A few thousand hits popped up. Ray clicked on the first one.

Holy shit. _Holy shit_. Ray went back and tried the next one on the list.

Three hours later, Ray's head was spinning. Armando Langoustini was connected with virtually every crime the country had: drugs, prostitution, human trafficking, theft, murder. You name it, he did it. Arrested a dozen times, but never brought to trial, leaving piles of dead witnesses in his wake. If the feds were going to put out a ton of money to bring anyone down, it would be this guy.

And this guy looked _exactly_ like Ray Vecchio. Ray pulled up pictures from a year ago, when Vecchio was still in Chicago, and from three months ago, when Vecchio was supposedly in New York City and the two pictures were identical. They were also identical to the guy in Fraser's postcard, except the guy in Fraser's postcard was smiling and had clear, happy eyes. These two pictures were of quiet, angry men with shuttered eyes. For Fraser's sake, Ray wanted to believe that Vecchio was still a good guy, that he hadn't been turned. Even if that was true, however, it was obvious that this wasn't the same man in the postcard. Whatever he'd had to do to keep his cover had changed him, made him harder.

Ray sighed and clicked on yet another website. Another picture of Vecchio/Langoustini, this time with a woman on his arm. A blonde woman, who looked...familiar. In fact, she looked like...

Holy fuck, it was Stella.

ooo

Fraser stepped outside of the precinct and paused to rub his eyes tiredly. For the last couple of weeks he, Lieutenant Welsh, and Francesca had all been surreptitiously investigating a body found in the drywall of one of the station's interview rooms. The delicate nature of the circumstances surrounding the corpse -- namely that Ray Vecchio had openly threatened to kill the man for hurting Frannie -- had forced them to work outside of normal police hours to minimize the risk of someone observing their work and handing the entire case off to Internal Affairs. It meant that he'd often arrived home after Ray had gone to work, putting more pressure on their already strained relationship.

Thankfully, the investigation had finally come to a satisfactory close, with Ray Vecchio completely cleared of any involvement. Moreover, it was a Friday night, which meant Ray would be free for the next two days. Fraser smiled at the thought and started towards home, already planning potential outings the two of them could undertake in a bid to rejuvenate their friendship.

He'd come up with several promising possibilities by the time he opened the door to the apartment, and he was positively flush with hopeful energy. The last few weeks had been tough, but he and Ray could overcome them, Fraser was sure of it.

Then he saw the white piece of paper sitting on the counter, and his buoyant smile began to slip.

_Fraser,_

_I had to go. I got things to do and I can't explain them, but I'll be back if I can, I promise. Money for next month's rent is on the counter -- sorry there ain't more, but I needed the rest to get a car._

_Tell Dief goodbye for me._

_-Ray_

Stunned, Fraser fell into one of the barstools and numbly took off his hat before burying his face in his hands. When he felt Diefenbaker press anxiously against his leg, Fraser couldn't hold it in any longer.

He wept.


	5. Second Chances

Note: I'm not sure how this site reports updated/added chapters to those signed up for story alerts, but this is the *full* fifth story in the series, replacing the partial story that was previously saved as chapter five. This chapter five is complete and beta'd.

(Actually, if anyone who does have story alerts could let me know whether this update was sent out, I'd appreciate it.)

Additional note: this series is now complete (yay!) and in beta. Further stories in the series will come out as soon as they are edited.

**Chances 5: Second Chances**

Fraser walked into his apartment so exhausted that he seriously considered continuing on into the bedroom and collapsing onto the mattress, regardless of the fact that it was only six o'clock and he was still clothed in his full dress uniform. Fortunately Diefenbaker barked a couple of times to remind Fraser that if he didn't feed the wolf he risked Dief going out and finding his own dinner. Which might result in a repetition of the Hot Dog Disaster of '03. Fraser sighed and made his way to the kitchen.

Filling Dief's bowl with kibble took but a moment, but the activity was enough to give Fraser a bit of momentum. He used it to hang up his hat and uniform and to get changed into regular clothes. Only when he was dressed from neck to toe, with undershirt and overshirt neatly tucked in, belt firmly buckled, and boots tightly laced, did he make himself remove the folded piece paper from the pouch on his Sam Brown.

Holding the paper slightly away from his body, as if it smelled unpleasant or was potentially dangerous, Fraser carried it to the kitchen counter. He didn't unfold the paper as he sat down on a bar stool and stared at it. He didn't need to unfold it. The printing had burned itself into his memory the first time he'd seen it, earlier in the week, and even now he could remember it word for word.

_Notification of Transfer..._

He'd been to Ottawa before, of course, and it wasn't bad for a large city. The difficulty lay in the fact that Fraser didn't want to be posted in a large city, even a Canadian one, and if he _did_ have to take an urban posting, well... he had friends here, in Chicago, people who cared about him, people who would be sad to see him go. And not all of those people were named Ray; fortunate, since there were no longer any Rays to be found in the Windy City, at least not any Rays of Fraser's acquaintance. Ray Vecchio had been gone for over a year now, and Ray Kowalski for nearly three weeks. Fraser despaired of seeing either ever again.

Which brought him back to the transfer. Typically there were three types of transfers: one requested by the officer, usually because of disagreement with his current posting or for a desire to see a new locale; one requested by the officer's superiors, often because of poor performance; and one decreed by the Depot, generally because an officer was in line for a promotion, but in a posting without any openings for an officer of higher rank.

Fraser, being Fraser, had a transfer that was none of the above. If he was reading the politics correctly -- and he wasn't sure that he was -- this transfer was a sign that his previous actions were, if not forgiven, at least being set aside to allow him to come back home. An end to a three-year exile.

Fraser sighed and let his head fall down to rest on his crossed forearms. He really didn't have the energy to make a decision now. Unfortunately, he couldn't put off his answer for much longer.

He was still contemplating his future when Dief suddenly started barking frantically. A second later a knock echoed through the front door. Fraser frowned and reluctantly dragged himself to his feet. It took every ounce of self-discipline he had to straighten his back as he answered the door.

To find Ray Kowalski standing on the other side.

"Sorry about the knocking, but I wasn't sure if my key would still work, and even if it did I didn't think you'd want--"

Ray squeaked as Fraser jerked him into a bone-crushing bear hug.

He squeaked again as Dief nailed the two of them at the knees, knocking them both to the ground. Dief promptly took advantage of the situation and started licking Ray's face frantically. "Not the face, not the face! Oh, hell." Ray sighed and his body went still under Fraser's. Dief licked him a couple more times before laying down so close that Fraser could feel Dief's fur brushing against his cheek. He easily ignored the slight irritation, his eyes glued to Ray's wonderfully familiar and very much missed blue ones. "Ray," he breathed. "You came back."

"Yeah," Ray said softly, working one hand free from the tangle of bodies to pat Fraser on the back. "I'm back. And here to stay this time, I promise." He squeaked again. "Air! Fraser, I need air!"

Fraser loosened his grip slightly, but refused to let go. Fortunately Ray didn't complain and they lay there on the floor for several minutes, Fraser rapidly blinking his stinging eyes and trying not to read too much into the fact that Ray's hand was now running up and down Fraser's back in long, soothing strokes.

"Fraser," Ray finally said, too soon for Fraser's liking, but far longer than Fraser had had any right to expect. "Mind if we go inside now? Not that I mind or anything, but tonight's Mrs. Henderson's bridge night and if we wait much longer she's gonna get an eyeful."

Fraser felt his face heat. "Of course, Ray, I'm very sorry." He clambered to his feet and held out his hand to help Ray up.

"No reason to be sorry," Ray said, his eyes and his voice warm. "I missed you, too."

At that, Fraser had to turn away to hide the emotion he couldn't keep from his face. "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat," Ray said. "Why don't we call out for pizza, my treat?"

"Of course," Fraser answered, and he hurried to the phone, grateful for something to do. Ordering pizza only took a few minutes, however, and soon he was once again at a loss.

"_Fraser_," Ray said, sounding exasperated. "Stop messing around and sit down." He patted the sofa and Fraser wasted no time in sitting where indicated. "Okay," Ray said. "I've got a lot to tell you, but first things first: Stella's still alive."

For a moment Fraser's vision grayed out and in the back of his mind he started checking off the various symptoms of shock even as Ray added, "It gets better. She's living in Las Vegas. With Vecchio."

Abruptly, Fraser cricked his neck, using the extra second or two to gather his wits. Unfortunately, he was reduced to rubbing his eyebrow and licking his lips as well before he was ready to ask, "Are you quite certain, Ray? That seems very serendipitous."

"No shit," Ray said dryly. "But I'm sure. I just spent the last couple of weeks with them in Vegas. They're happy as a couple of bugs in a rug, especially now that Stella knows Vecchio's not a mob boss and Vecchio knows Stella isn't a bank teller." Ray snorted. "What the hell were the Feds thinking, anyway? Bank teller? Stella? Seriously?"

"I believe the purpose of the Witness Protection Program is to place endangered witnesses in as unremarkable and unmemorable a position as possible," Fraser said primly. "Assuming, of course, that Mrs. Kowalski is under the protection of the US Marshals."

"Yeah, she's in Witsec all right, but I don't think she's going to make it long term. Frankly, I think she woulda dropped out already if she hadn't met Vecchio." Ray ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

Fraser noticed that the hair in question was far more experimental than it had been of late, and that the paler highlights emphasized Ray's new tan. In addition to the tan, Ray had also picked up a few much-needed pounds and his eyes were brighter than Fraser had ever seen them before.

"It appears that your decision to visit Las Vegas was a fortuitous one," Fraser said, doing his best to hide his reluctance. "Do you plan to return now that you know Stella's alive?"

Ray stared at him. "Have you been kicked in the head lately?"

Fraser frowned. "Certainly not."

"You sure? Because I distinctly remember telling you, not ten seconds ago, that Stella's with Vecchio now."

"You did. I assumed, however--"

"Don't assume, Fraser, it makes an ass out of you and me." Ray grinned and shrugged. "Not like I need much help, huh?" He sobered. "I'm really sorry I ran out on you like that," he said quietly. "When I saw that picture of Stella on that Las Vegas website, my brain just turned off. All I could think about was getting to her as soon as I could, to see if she really was alive."

"You don't need to explain," Fraser said quietly.

"Fraser, I swear, if you don't stop being so damn selfless right now, I'm going to kick you in the ass." Fraser raised his eyebrows and Ray shrugged. "What? I saw some of those shows in Vegas and I gotta tell you, I don't really think I can kick that high anymore."

Fraser felt his lips twitching entirely despite himself and Ray grinned. "See there, you think I'm being funny, but I'm not. Those gals are amazing. And wait till I tell you about this new circus act they got going on."

Ray spent the next fifteen minutes telling Fraser about his adventures in Las Vegas until he was interrupted by the arrival of the pizza. He flatly refused to allow plates to be used, but Fraser managed to win the napkin argument and soon they were settled back on the couch, Ray continuing his story despite a mouth full of food.

He finished nearly an hour and three-quarters of a pizza later. "So that's my great Vegas adventure. Whadda ya think?"

"It sounds... relaxing," Fraser said.

Ray stared at him. "Relaxing."

Fraser winced. "For some people, I'm sure it would have been relaxing."

A slow, warm smile spread over Ray's face. "I bet Stella and Vecchio find it relaxing."

"I'm very impressed, Ray. You've managed to say your ex-wife's name several times over the last hour."

For some reason, Ray flushed. "Yeah, well. I practiced some before I went to Vegas." Fraser looked at him, surprised. "Okay, I practiced a lot. But it was good, you know? I think if I hadn't been practicing, I would've been fucked when I found out she was still alive."

"It is a remarkable turn of events." Fraser cleared his throat. "I'm surprised you recognized Ray Vecchio in Las Vegas. I hadn't realized you knew each other."

Ray snorted. "Fraser, the man looks just like he does in that picture you have, except for a silly little peach fuzz moustache. I can see why they were so hot to have him fill in for Langostini. It's freaky how much they look alike."

"Ah," Fraser said, for a lack of anything better, and tried to come up with a new subject that didn't involve Ray's ex-wife or Fraser's ex-partner.

Ray suddenly leaned forward. "I know it sucks," he said, his voice low and intense. "I know he left while you were Canada and I know you're still pissed about that." Fraser opened his mouth to protest, but Ray talked over him. "It's okay, Fraser, you've got a right to be pissed. It was a shitty situation all around. But you also need to know that the moment he found out I knew you, he started asking about you." Ray smiled ruefully. "He damn near made me give a day by day account since you and I met. He's happy that you're carrying a cell phone now, by the way. Pissed that it took so long, but he thinks it's a good thing."

"He always did want me to carry one," Fraser murmured.

There was a bit of a silence before Ray said, "It wasn't his fault, Fraser. I worked undercover, so I can tell you: the timing of these deals can sometimes be tricky. And when you're replacing someone real, it gets even tougher. The Fibbies only had a couple of days to teach Vecchio how to be a mob boss before he had to go to a meeting in Atlantic City. Then they had a week to teach him to be a _specific_ mob boss before he went back to Las Vegas. That's a lot of shit to learn in just a few days."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow, feeling absurdly betrayed. "You seem to have gotten quite close," he said, attempting to keep his voice neutral. He wasn't sure how successful he was.

Again Ray flushed; either he had picked up the habit in Las Vegas, or Fraser had forgotten more of his friend than he'd like to believe. "Yeah, well, after the initial meeting Stella wasn't so keen to spend much time with me and, well, Vecchio was happy to have someone he could talk to about you."

Ray's expression, when he finally looked up on the last few words of his speech, was oddly confrontational. Fraser could see no reason for the challenge, so he once again attempted to change the subject. "You said you were back to stay."

"Yeah," Ray said warily.

Another incomprehensible emotion. Honestly, Fraser was starting to feel like there was another conversation going on in the room, one from which he was being excluded. "I'm very happy you are back," Fraser said, just in case. There were some expressions that couldn't be repeated often enough.

Ray relaxed visibly. "Me, too, Fraser. Me, too." He slumped back into a sprawl. "Got no idea what I'm going to do for a job, though. Can't go back to the warehouse after walking off the job, and that's the only thing on my resume besides being a cop."

"Don't worry about the money, Ray," Fraser said firmly. "We can live on my salary for a month or two, if necessary."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Actually, I got that covered." He lifted his hips so that he could reach for his back pocket and Fraser's eyes widened as the bulk Fraser had assumed to be a wallet instead proved to be a thick wad of American bills.

"_Ray_, where did you--"

"Don't worry, I didn't steal it," Ray said wryly. He dropped the money on the coffee table and sat back. "It's from Vecchio, for you."

Fraser blinked. "For me?"

"Yeah. Vecchio wanted me to keep it a secret. He seemed to think that I could just sneak ten thousand dollars into your budget without you noticing." Ray lifted an eyebrow. "Did you really ask him for money often enough that he just gave you his wallet?"

Fraser flushed. "When I first started, I'm afraid that I had difficulty finding time to exchange my salary for American currency. Ray very kindly lent me American money when necessary."

"Huh," Ray said doubtfully. "Well, anyway, he thought I could pull something like that, only the wallet would be full of hundreds." He shrugged. "Obviously I couldn't pull that off, so I told him I'd just give it to you. And there it is."

"Ray... I'm not sure it would be prudent to use this money."

Ray grinned. "Don't worry, it's not mob money. Well, not really. Vecchio gambles a lot in Vegas, and if he just happens to win more than the average joe off the street, well, those are the odds."

Fraser continued to frown. "I'm afraid that isn't very comforting, Ray." He brightened. "Though the Little Sisters of Saint--"

"Oh, no. No no no. I promised Vecchio that I'd spend this money on you." Ray reached back and pulled out another thick wad of bills from his other pocket. "He said you could give this to charity, but you have to spend the rest on yourself." Before Fraser could continue his protests, Ray added, "Look, I've been driving for two days straight. Can we argue about this in the morning?"

"Of course," Fraser said, mortified. "I'm so sorry, Ray, I didn't even consider your trip."

"Not a problem, Fraser. Just need a shower and some sleep." He started towards the bathroom. "See you in the morning?" he called over his shoulder.

"Of course, Ray," Fraser said. The bathroom door closed. "Of course," he murmured softly.

As the sounds of the shower spray turning on, Fraser walked to the kitchen and plucked the folded piece of paper off the counter. A small smile crossed his face. He didn't think he'd be moving back to Ottawa after all.

ooo

An hour later, Fraser snuck into the bedroom. Once he was sure Ray was asleep, Fraser stretched out on his own bed and turned to face his roommate.

It was a long, long time before Fraser was able to close his eyes and sleep.

ooo

For the first time in, ever, really, Ray woke up before his roommate, and he took shameless advantage of the opportunity to stare at Fraser. That dark hair, that pale skin, that great body... his roommate was so very, very pretty and Ray couldn't quite hold back a happy sigh.

He managed to get a good five minutes of looking in before thought of the evening before intruded and he flopped back on his bed with a sigh.

The entire drive back from Las Vegas, he had been planning what he would do when he saw Fraser again. First? A hug. Check, even if he hadn't been the one to initiate it.

After that, though, there was supposed to have been a kiss and, if the kiss had gone over well, hopefully there would have been some fucking. Lots of fucking. Fucking and more kissing and moaning and maybe even cuddling and Jesus Christ Ray was a chickenshit.

Bad enough that Ray had mooned over Fraser for six fucking months, but now that he had the blessing of both Fraser's best friend and Ray's ex-wife (not to mention Vecchio's assertion that Fraser being bent 'would explain a hell of a lot') the fact that he hadn't made a move was just pathetic. Pathetic and risky, because Ray knew that if he didn't make a move soon he and Fraser would fall right back into the relationship they'd had before, the one where Ray pined and pined and Fraser just looked at him like a buddy. That was the tough thing about falling in love with a friend -- too long and you miss your chance to move on to something more.

But there was also danger in trying to move to something more, because if your friend wasn't interested -- especially your male friend, the one you aren't actually sure is bent -- then you're out both the something more and your best friend.

Ray groaned and punched his pillow in frustration. He must've groaned too loud, though, because Fraser suddenly bolted upright, like he always did when he woke up late. "What time is it, Ray?"

Ray glanced at the clock (on his side of the room because usually he was the only one who needed it). "Uh, ten till eight."

"Oh, dear." Fraser leapt out of bed and started pulling on his uniform with quick, efficient movements.

Ray was so lost in admiring a certain bobbing Mountie butt that Fraser was tying on his lanyard before Ray thought to say, "Maybe you don't have to go in today. I mean, it's not every day when your pord-perd-prod- long-lost roommate comes back into town."

Fraser actually hesitated at that and Ray held his breath, wondering if he was actually seeing a miracle in the making here. Then Fraser shook his head, a strange smile filling his face. "I'm afraid I can't, Ray. There's a bit of a miscommunication in the office that I need to clear up as soon as possible."

It was impossible to be mad with a smiling Fraser, so Ray just smiled back. "Okay. But maybe I can pick you up for lunch? Vecchio's treat?"

Fraser beamed. "That would be wonderful. I'll look forward to seeing you then."

They exchanged sappy smiles at each other for a minute, until Diefenbaker barked. Fraser snapped to attention, gave Ray one more quick smile, then hurried away.

Ray flopped back onto his bed, sappy smile still firmly in place. It was good to be home.

ooo

Two hours later, standing in front of an unfamiliar police station, Ray wasn't nearly so confident. He wasn't looking forward to this meeting at all.

Walking up those cement steps was one of the hardest things Ray'd ever done, but by the time he'd reached the top his stubbornness had kicked in and he walked through the hallways shooting belligerent glares at everyone he met. He got a lot of raised eyebrows and bemused looks in return. Jeez, either these were the most laid-back cops he'd ever seen, or they somehow recognized him from his time over at the 14th.

That last thought took some of the wind out of his sails, and he was back to feeling nervous by the time he knocked on Lieutenant Welsh's door. Welsh's gruff, "Enter," sounded just a little like a lion grumbling in his den. Ray girded his gonads before opening the door.

"Hello, sir."

Welsh's response was as extreme as Ray'd hoped: he dropped his pencil and looked up at least twice as fast as usual. "Well, well, the prodigal ex-cop returns."

Prodigal, that's what that word was. "Better late than never, sir?" Welsh did not look amused and Ray winced. "Uh, I actually just came to apologize."

Welsh leaned back in his chair. "Oh, I'm looking forward to hearing this."

And there was that nervousness again, but Ray owed this man, owed him a lot, so he merely stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. Welsh's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't say anything.

"Okay, first of all, you have to promise me that no one will hear about this. I shouldn't even be telling you, but you got a right to know and..."

"Kowalski. I am a police lieutenant. Have been for ten years. I understand the necessity of discretion."

Ray grinned at that. "Been spending a lot of time with Fraser, sir?"

Welsh glowered. "Any time now, Kowalski."

The grin slipped away and Ray took a deep breath. "Stella's alive. I mean, ADA Kowalski's still alive."

Welsh's jaw _actually dropped_. Ray held in his grin, feeling smug. "Could you repeat that?"

"Stella's alive, sir. And living in Las Vegas. With Armando Langostini, aka Ray Vecchio."

"Mother of God," Welsh breathed.

"Exactly, sir."

It took a few seconds before Welsh shook his head, looking a bit like a baffled bull mastiff. "I have to say, that wasn't what I expected you to say."

"Figured a bottle would be involved," Ray offered knowingly. Welsh opened his mouth like he was planning on apologizing. Ray talked over him, "It's okay, sir, a bottle was involved. After I saw Stella's picture, I went a little out of my mind. Cleaned out my savings, bought a car, and stopped at a liquor store on the way out of town."

Welsh buried his face in his hands. "I don't think I want to hear any more."

"I didn't open the bottle," Ray said quietly.

Welsh looked up at that.

"I couldn't," Ray said with a shrug. "I wanted to, so bad, but I thought about what Fraser would say if I got into an accident 'cause I was drunk and so I figured I'd wait till I got to a motel. But then I drove through the night and by the time I got to Vegas I was too tired to do anything but pull into a parking lot and pass out.

"Next morning, I started stalking Stella. Completely forgot about the bottle until I was heading back out of town. I threw it away at a rest stop in Utah."

Welsh stared at him for a moment. "Stalking?"

Ray winced. "That's what she called it, sir. And, well, that's what it probably was. Vecchio's goons caught me. Almost got the Langostini treatment before Stella intervened."

"Dare I ask... the Langostini treatment?"

"If someone pisses Langostini off, his goons take the poor schmuck out to the desert, break both his arms and legs and leave him there to rot."

Welsh actually paled a bit at that, so Ray hurried to add, "It's not that bad. The original Langostini would've had the guy shot. You can recover from broken bones, but not from a bullet in the head. And Vecchio says he calls his handler as soon as possible so they can pick the guy up."

"And no one has questioned this?"

Ray shrugged. "It's pretty smart, sir. Breaking a guy's bones and leaving him out to be eaten by wild animals is a lot more effective as a fear tactic than just plain shooting someone. From what I've heard, people are a lot more scared of Vecchio than they ever were of Langostini and no one is ever going to wonder if Vecchio is an undercover cop. The fact that it leaves witnesses alive for the Feds to question is a bonus."

"I always knew Vecchio had it in him," Welsh said, looking proud. He sobered quickly. "How is he doing?"

"Not bad, sir, but I think that's partly because he has Stella now. I heard some folks talking about how much happier he is since they started dating."

"It appears that you heard a lot while you were there."

"Once a cop, always a cop," Ray said ruefully.

Welsh frowned at that. "No one suspected anything?"

"Stella introduced me as her brother--" and damn if he was going to get over that anytime soon "--so Vecchio had an excuse to welcome me with open arms. Once he found out I knew Fraser, he was happy to help me keep up my cover."

"Thank God for coincidences," Welsh said with a sigh. He sat back in his chair again. "You know, Kowalski, that was a fine bit of detective work."

"Thank you, sir," Ray said warily. "But you know, when I said 'once a cop, always a cop' that didn't actually mean I wanted to be a cop again."

Welsh waved that away. "Frankly, the way you left the department, I doubt you could come back even if you wanted to. I was thinking of something more along the lines of private investigator."

Ray eyed him narrowly. "You'd help me again, sir, after the way I walked off of the last job?"

"I wasn't thrilled to hear that," Welsh admitted. "But Fraser called and said you had a family emergency and would be away indefinitely."

Now it was Ray's turn for raised eyebrows. Sure, he _had_ had a family emergency, but it wasn't as if Fraser had known that at the time. "So I'm guessing the warehouse has a new night watchman?"

"Can't be too careful with valuable carpet," Welsh said dryly.

Ray nodded and chewed his lip for a second. Private investigator. Sort of like a cop, only without the getting shot at on a regular basis. And probably with lots of cases where he'd be investigating cheating spouses. Ray didn't like cheating spouses; the very idea that he'd ever cheat on Stella was ridiculous and if she'd cheated on him, it would've killed him. It was bad enough that she started dating other people after the divorce.

Out loud, he merely said, "Private investigator, huh?"

"Crappy pay, long hours, and people pissed at you all of the time," Welsh offered.

"Just like old times," Ray said dryly.

"Think about it," Welsh suggested. "But think about it somewhere else, because some of us have work to do."

ooo

Ray did think about it. He thought about it as he went to apologize to the warehouse manager in person (he told him that his sister had resurfaced after being missing for three years -- hey, Stella started it), he thought about it as he dropped off ten thousand dollars at the Little Sisters of Saint Sebastian (in Fraser's name), he thought about it as he went grocery shopping with Vecchio's money (since Fraser had apparently spent the last three weeks living off of beans and oatmeal), and he was still thinking about it when he picked Fraser up from the consulate at twelve thirty.

"Hey, Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"What do you think about PIs?"

"I can't say that I've had much experience with them. Why?"

Ray sighed. "Welsh thought I should consider it as, you know, a career."

Fraser smiled. "I think you would be an excellent private investigator, Ray."

"Thanks, Fraser." Ray managed to keep his mouth shut for a couple of blocks before he burst out: "It's just... it's gotta cost a lot of money to start your own business."

Fraser considered that. "Well, there is always the money that R--"

"_No_. Vecchio sent that money for you."

"And if I should wish to be a silent partner in your private investigation business, then I will be using the money for me."

Ray opened his mouth, closed it again, then said, "Let me think about it."

Fraser settled back in his seat with that small smile he got when he was feeling smug. Ray just scowled back and took a quick right. If he was going to have to suffer through lunch with Fraser being smug, then he was damn sure going to do it at his favorite restaurant.

An hour later, Ray dropped Fraser and an overstuffed wolf back off at the consulate and headed for the job center. Time to see just what was involved in becoming a PI.

As it turned, out a hell of a lot was involved. Basic training, special firearms training, study guides, tests, two separate state applications... the list went on. Ray had no idea PIs had to go through so much just so they could do their job.

Plus there were set-up costs for any business: office space, furniture, computers, phones, utilities. In fact, the only thing Ray had going for him at the moment was that he already had a car, POS that it was.

One thing was very clear: ten thousand dollars was not going to be enough, even if Ray did agree to take it. Which meant Ray needed another job in the interim, something to pay the bills and hopefully a bit more for savings.

His first thought was to look for Shelia to help him with his resume again. Sadly, Sheila had apparently moved on to greener pastures and her replacement, Adam, wasn't nearly as helpful. As a result, Ray spent the rest of the afternoon painstakingly recreating his resume, this time with a whole two different employers. At least he had ten bucks to pay for a flash drive, not to mention the free e-mail address Vecchio had hooked him up with so Ray could send anonymous Fraser updates. He saved the file and mailed it to himself, just to be on the safe side.

Despite the crappy afternoon, Ray was in a pretty good mood as he returned to the apartment. He had a car, he had a little money in his pocket, and he was living with his best friend in the world. Life was good. And with a homemade goulash, it could only get better.

Riding high on his positive attitude, Ray decided to clean up the apartment a bit once he got the stew cooking. Not that there was much to clean up, seeing as Fraser was a neat-freak, but even in the twenty or so hours since he'd gotten back, Ray'd managed to mess up the place and while he knew Fraser wouldn't throw him out or anything, Ray was kind of hoping to avoid setting off Fraser's passive-aggressiveness for as long as possible.

He was wiping down the bar dividing the kitchen from the living room when he came across a white piece of paper folded into quarters.

ooo

For the first time in weeks, Fraser found himself watching the consulate clock as the big hand slowly inched closer to five. The anticipating was like a low-level electric current buzzing just below the surface of his skin, becoming increasingly distracting as the time to leave drew closer. By the time the clock struck five, Fraser had entirely given up on his paperwork for the day and he was halfway out his office door before the second hand had managed to start a new hour.

Of course he didn't show his eagerness to leave as he made his farewells to the Inspector and Turnbull, but he was hard-pressed to walk out of the consulate that evening at his usual pace and as soon as he was out of sight of the building, he allowed himself to break into a run. He felt ridiculously happy as his legs ate up the distance to his apartment, Diefenbaker keeping pace at his side.

All of that happiness, all of that joy, collapsed like a rotten snowbank on a hot summer's day when Fraser opened the door to see Ray sitting on the couch, an open bottle of scotch sitting on the table in front of him.

"Ray?" Fraser breathed, standing in the open doorway, appalled.

Diefenbaker whined and pushed past Fraser's frozen legs, padding forward to snuffle at Ray's knees.

Ray sighed and patted the wolf on the head. "Why didn't you tell me, Fraser?"

Fraser took one wary step into the apartment. "What didn't I tell you?"

Ray groaned. "Oh, God, was that what you were talking about? When you were pushing me to go back to Stella? Is that why?"

"Ray, I have no idea what you are talking about," Fraser admitted, doing his best to keep his voice low and soft, to hide his panic.

"I'm talking about you leaving," Ray snapped. "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

Fraser frowned. "I'm not leaving."

There was a pause. Diefenbaker took advantage of the break and jumped on the couch, plopping his head on Ray's lap with an annoyed sounding huff. Ray gave the wolf an absent-minded scratch behind the ears. "You aren't?" he finally said.

"No."

"But... but I saw the transfer paper."

Fraser closed his eyes and swallowed a curse. "I'm sorry you saw that. I never meant for you to." He took a deep breath. "In fact, I informed Inspector Thatcher today that I did not wish to take the transfer to Ottawa."

Ray's face, which had just begun to show signs of hope, shuttered. "Don't bullshit me, Fraser. I was a cop, I know how transfers work. You don't just get to tell the central office to fuck off, that you aren't moving to a new precinct."

"Normally you are quite correct, Ray, transfers once assigned are rarely changed. An officer may always appeal the transfer, however, and I have done so in this case. As I believe this transfer is a message from the Depot that my previous actions have been forgiven, I do not believe that they will force me to accept the transfer against my express wishes." He sighed and moved to sit on the other side of the couch, sandwiching Diefenbaker between himself and Ray. "If it is of any comfort to you, Inspector Thatcher agrees with my analysis of the situation. She has already stated that she anticipates that I will be in Chicago indefinitely."

"Oh," Ray said, his voice a bit shaky. "Oh."

They sat on the couch for several minutes, the silence only broken by Diefenbaker's lazily wagging tail slapping down on Fraser's leg.

"Fraser, could you do me a favor?"

"Anything, Ray."

"Could you empty that bottle in the sink?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," Fraser answered, and he meant it more than anything he'd ever said before in his life.

ooo

Things were awkward between Fraser and Ray for the next week and Ray was honest enough with himself to admit that it was mostly his fault. Fraser never mentioned that bottle of booze again, but Ray found himself unable to stop thinking about it: while cooking dinner, looking for work, washing the car -- no matter what he did to occupy his body, his mind kept running over and over the Matter of the Bottle.

Ray wasn't completely without self-awareness; he knew that he was an alcoholic. Hell, two years living on the streets made that clear enough. But dammit, he had Fraser now, and that was better than any old bottle of booze. He'd had seven dry months to prove it.

But clearly all of that was just a load of horseshit, because when he thought Fraser was leaving, when he thought he might have to be alone again, the very first thing Ray had thought of was alcohol. That first burn of fluid down his throat, followed by that deep warmth that seemed to spread through his veins. That lovely, fuzzy time after the first few slugs when his thoughts grew a bit hazy and for a few minutes nothing was wrong with the world.

Ray hadn't stopped to consider what Fraser would think. He hadn't stopped to consider his health or the danger or what happened last time he'd fallen into a bottle. He hadn't thought of anything but going the nearest liquor store (the one he passed every day on his way to the job center), picking up a basket, and filling it with booze.

The basket of booze that, minus one bottle, was sitting in the trunk of Ray's car, where there was absolutely no chance that Fraser would ever discover it.

The knowledge of that stash made Ray's stomach twist unpleasantly, but that churning was easily overwhelmed by the sense of relief and security he felt, knowing that the bottles were there. If he needed them. Which he wouldn't, right?

Fuck.

Maybe it was time to clean the apartment again.

Ray had just finished de-hairing the couch and was considering taking down the curtains to run them through the washing machine when the phone rang. He leapt for it. "Fraser?"

"_I'm afraid not_."

"Oh. Hi, Lieutenant. Are you looking for Fraser?"

"_I imagine if I was, I'd be out of luck. Fortunately, I'm calling you_."

"Really? Why?"

"_I might have a job prospect for you. Can you come to the precinct? Preferably immediately?_"

Ray perked up at the word 'job'. "Give me ten minutes."

"_Don't break any laws getting here, Kowalski_."

"Then give me fifteen." Ray hung up the phone without waiting for an answer and sprinted for the door.

Two minutes later he sprinted back in, grabbed his coat, and ran out again.

ooo

"Hello, sir."

Lieutenant Welsh glanced up from what appeared to be a mountain of paperwork. "Have a seat."

Ray shrugged and sat down. "So, about--"

"I'll be with you in a second, Kowalski."

Ray's eyes widened. The fuck? What was all of that 'preferably immediately' bullshit if Welsh was going to make him sit here and wait? "Look--"

"_Kowalski_," Welsh growled. "It will just be a minute."

A minute was a hell of a lot longer than a second, but Ray owed this man a lot and he desperately needed a job, so he kept his mouth shut and focused on perfecting his glower.

The minutes -- way more than one -- ticked by slowly as Welsh read report after report and signed off on each one. Ever few minutes he glanced up at the clock, like he was worried about being late to a meeting or something. Ray felt his temper burn a little hotter with each glance, till it felt like his blood was going to burst out of his veins it was under so much pressure.

Finally Ray had had enough and he stood up. Welsh immediately put down his latest report and opened his mouth, but Ray beat him to it. "Look, sir, I can see that you're busy and I've got things to do." Those curtains weren't going to wash themselves, after all. "I can come back later."

"Sit down, Kowalski," Welsh said, rubbing his hands over his face tiredly.

Ray bounced on the balls of his feet and pointedly did _not_ sit.

"Look, I'm sorry," Welsh said, and that surprised Ray so much that he very nearly sat down despite himself. "I was hoping to get these reports done before a meeting that it looks like isn't going to happen, so..." He lifted the much reduced mountain of paperwork and shifted it to one side. Leaning forward, he focused the considerable weight of his attention on Ray.

Ray hesitated, then sat down.

"I asked you down here to discuss a potential job opportunity," Welsh said. "I still think you'd make a fine private investigator--"

"Uh, they're called professional investigators now, sir," Ray said.

Welsh narrowed his eyes. "_At any rate_, I recognize that it will take time to earn your PI license if that is what you choose to do and in the meantime you'll need some form of employment."

Ray couldn't help but nod at the truth of that statement.

"Now, a little bird told me that you have some experience with auto repair."

Ray eyed the lieutenant, who seemed to be waiting for a response. "Yeah," he said warily. "When I was a kid my dad bought this old GTO and we basically rebuilt it from the frame up. And I've always done my own oil changes, sh-stuff like that."

For some reason, Welsh looked pleased by that story. "Well then you should be eminently qualified for the mechanic job that opened up at the central motor pool. Mostly you'll be doing preventative maintenance, maybe banging out a few dents or replacing tail lights."

Wow. That was... that would be perfect. Ray'd looked into getting a position at an auto-repair shop before, of course, (they paid a hell of a lot more than night security for one thing, and he liked fixing cars) but most of them required lots of experience or special training to deal with all of the computer shit that came with newer cars. A job with the motor pool would let him work on cars and learn some of the newer stuff, and would also give him experience if the whole PI thing didn't work out and he needed to find another job some day. "Thank you, sir, that would be great." Then he frowned. "But do you really think they'll hire me after... everything?"

"With my rec--"

There was a knock on the door and a good looking black man wearing a nice suit stuck his head in. "Lieutenant, there's some folks waiting for you in the parking lot. They say you're expecting them?"

Welsh smiled. "Thank you, Detective. We'll be right out." Looking way too pleased with himself for some reason, he said to Ray, "It looks like that meeting's going to happen after all. I'll walk you out."

Welsh stood up, which meant Ray had to stand up, too. "Okay, sir. But about that job--"

"I'll make some inquiries and call you as soon as I know anything more." Somehow, without making it look like he was doing it, Welsh herded Ray out the door and a second later Ray found them making their way through the building.

"Uh, thank you, sir. But, you know, my car isn't on this side of the--" They walked through the side door of the precinct and Ray's words cut off abruptly at the sight before him.

A mid-sized motor home sat neatly parked in the alley next to the precinct. Someone had actually laid out a few square feet of Astroturf in front, just enough for two lawn chairs to be arranged on either side of the motor home's door. Even more bizarrely, there was a tiny, three-inch high white picket fence edging the fake grass.

But none of those oddities were more unbelievable than the sight of Barbara and Damien Kowalski jumping out of those lawn chairs the moment Ray stepped out of the building.

"Ma?" Ray whispered in disbelief. "Dad?"

"Oh, Ray," Barbara cried, running forward and wrapping her arms around him in one of those mom-hugs that Ray hadn't had since he was a kid. "We were so worried about you."

Ray hugged her back, even more tightly than she was hugging him. "Ma, what are you doing here?" he asked, his face pressed into her soft shoulder.

Barbara sniffed and pulled out of the embrace, though she held on firmly to his arms, as if afraid he'd disappear if she let him go. "Well, dear, I always did stay in touch with Stella, even after you broke up. When we heard about her death, we were going to come to Chicago, but by that point you had disappeared." She made a small sound deep in her throat and pulled Ray back into another hug.

Demian said gruffly, "Then a few days ago this Italian guy called us up out of the blue and said you'd shown up again. Told us to call Lieutenant Welsh for more information."

Italian Guy. Ray Vecchio. _Stella_.

Ray hadn't realized that he'd said that last word out loud until his mother said, "Oh, Ray, I have to admit that I'd always thought that you and Stella would -- well, it doesn't matter now. She's gone, honey, and you'll have to learn to accept that."

Of course Ray couldn't say what he was thinking -- namely that it was pretty hard to forget about Stella when she was having her boyfriend stick his big nose in Ray's business -- so instead he turned to Welsh, who was watching the entire scene with his arms crossed and an undeniably smug expression on his face. "You knew about this, sir?"

"I did," Welsh said calmly. "But I wanted to speak with you about the other things we discussed as well. I'll call you when I know more." And then he left, the bastard, before Ray even had a chance to yell at him.

"Oh, Ray," Barbara said, letting Ray go again and this time stepping far enough back so that she could look him over. "You're so skinny. I've got some cookies in the house." Before Ray could protest that he didn't want cookies, really, his mom was gone.

Leaving him alone with Damien. Ray took a deep breath, then turned to face his father. "Hello, Dad."

"Hello, Ray." There was a long pause, then Damien held out his hand.

Heart in his throat but his hands rock steady, Ray shook the proffered hand. "I brought something of yours," Damien added as he let go.

"Really?" Ray glanced around and he froze as he saw the jet black car hitched to the back of the motor home. "Dad?" he whispered.

Damien shrugged and Ray thought he looked a little uncomfortable. "I thought you might want it back."

Half in a daze, Ray walked over to the car and lifted the hood. Even after all of these years, the engine block was a familiar to him as the curve of Stella's neck. "She's in great shape," he said, his voice a little thick.

Damien settled in next to him and for a while they just stood there, leaning against Ray's first car and staring at the engine that they built together. "It's good to see you, son." Damien finally said.

Ray swallowed hard, even though his heart was soaring. "You, too, Dad. You, too."


	6. Fixing Fate

Just in case: if you haven't read the updated (i.e., complete) version of Chapter 5 that went out yesterday, you should do so before reading this chapter.

**Chances 6: Fixing Fate**

Fraser frowned and tweaked the cuff of his uniform sleeve just a smidgeon over until it was lined up perfectly on the board. A quick smoothing of his hand and the sleeve was ready for the iron.

As a puff of steam billowed up from the iron he pressed down against that last swatch of fabric, Fraser felt a great wave of satisfaction and with a smile he held up the uniform jacket and inspected it from all sides. It was perfect.

Ray chose that moment to come in from the bedroom. "Looking good, Fraser. Got a big event coming up at the consulate?"

Startled, Fraser turned on his heel to face his roommate. "No, Ray. I'm just preparing for your parents' visit."

Ray's lips suddenly started twitching oddly. "Um, Fraser? You know you live here, right?"

"Of course," Fraser said warily.

"And you do realize that people rarely wear their work uniform while at home?"

Fraser felt his cheeks burning. Of course they didn't and if he were not so discombobulated at the prospect of meeting Ray's parents, he would have realized that. "I'm sorry, Ray. I just wanted to make a good impression."

"I know," Ray said gently, coming over to take the uniform jacket from Fraser's hand and carefully placing it on its hanger. "And I appreciate that. But, Fraser, they're going to love you. It's impossible that they won't love you. You're the guy parents always wish their kids would be friends with. Hell, if you were a girl, they'd be pushing for us to get married by the second visit." Ray's cheeks went a bit pink as he said that, and Fraser felt his face flaming.

"That's kind of you to say," he said, turning away to hide his blush. "But I'm afraid I can't help but be nervous." He hesitated. "What do you think I should wear?"

Ray shook his head and laughed, but obligingly went into the bedroom and looked through the drawers. A minute later he came out with a Henley and a pair of jeans. Fraser frowned a bit at the prospect of wearing such ordinary clothing for such an important occasion, but conceded that Ray knew his parents better than Fraser did. If he felt that casual clothes were the best choice, then Fraser would have to accept his decision.

Besides, they'd look a little more formal after he ironed them.

Ray laughed again as Fraser laid out his jeans on the ironing board, but said nothing disparaging, for which Fraser was very grateful. "I'm heading out to get a paper and some bagels," he said, shaking his head. "Have fun with the ironing."

"Thank you, Ray," Fraser said already thinking ahead. If he moved quickly, he could also get his boxer shorts ironed before Ray came back. That would save a considerable amount of his usual mockery.

An hour later, Fraser had finished all of his ironing (including a pair of socks for the occasion) and was starting to get a bit worried. The bagel shop that Ray usually went to was just a couple of blocks away -- even with a long line, Ray should have been back half an hour before.

The door suddenly slammed open so hard that it rebounded off of the opposite wall and very nearly slammed back shut again. A long stream of muffled cursing followed.

Well. At least Fraser knew where Ray was.

"Ray? Is everything all right?"

Ray hurled the door shut. "What do you think, Fraser?"

Privately, Fraser thought something truly awful must have happened to Ray on the way to or from the bagel shop. A quick check confirmed a lack of bagels, though Ray was carrying a newspaper. "Did something happen on the way to the bagel shop?"

"No!" Ray shouted. He slapped the newspaper down on the bar and stormed into the bedroom. He slammed that door shut as well.

Fraser's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. After a moment and lacking any other possible options, he inspected the newspaper for clues. The top headline screamed that a woman named Beth Botrelle was scheduled to die in three days for killing a police officer.

Smaller headlines informed Fraser that the Thanksgiving Day parade was going to start a half hour earlier this year and that a politician in Iowa was being indicted for corruption, but the first headline seemed most likely to be useful and so he read the accompanying article. According to the article, Detective Jake Botrelle and his partner Sam Franklin were investigating a case of union corruption when, after a long night of questioning suspects, Jake came home and was shot to death by his wife, Beth. With a preponderance of evidence against Mrs. Botrelle, she was tried and convicted and sentenced to be executed.

Fraser wasn't surprised to read that Officer Stanley R. Kowalski had been first at the scene of the crime.

With a sigh, Fraser set the newspaper back down on the counter. Clearly this was a case that still affected Ray, years after the fact.

The death penalty was an issue that Fraser did not often consider, as the last execution in Canada took place when Fraser was barely a year old. He was aware that it was a heated topic in the United States, of course, and perhaps that was the source of Ray's distress. While he understood most police officers were in favor of the death penalty (especially in the case of officer killings) two years of living on the streets had doubtless given Ray a new perspective on the desperation that so often drove criminals to break the law. Perhaps he no longer supported capital punishment.

Of course, this was all speculation until Fraser could convince Ray to speak to him. With that goal in mind, he tentatively knocked on the bedroom door. "Ray? May I come in?"

There was a long pause, long enough that Fraser was startled when the door suddenly opened. "It's your bedroom too."

"I am aware of that, Ray, but I also recognize the fact that our apartment is distinctly lacking in space where one of us can retreat for privacy. If that--"

"_Fraser_. Come in already."

Fraser stepped into the room and cautiously moved to sit on his bed. Ray shut the door, blocking out Diefenbaker, and flopped back onto the other bed. Fraser cleared his throat lightly. "Would you like to discuss Beth Botrelle?"

Ray snorted. "Sometimes you're kind of spooky."

Fraser smiled a bit at the compliment. "Thank you, Ray."

Unfortunately, that was the last thing that Ray said for nearly half an hour until even Fraser, who had practiced patience since he was a child, was beginning to think that an alternate method of persuasion would be needed.

Finally Ray said, "It was my first big case. Barely been on the force for six months, never even drawn my gun at that point. It was dark and the door was open."

Fraser stifled a sigh of relief that Ray was at least talking. "It must have been frightening."

"Ya think?" Ray snorted, but his voice was a little less tense as he continued. "He was lying there on the floor, covered in blood. Next to him was a piece of paper, and I picked it up." He suddenly sat up on the bed and rubbed his face with his hands. "Christ, I contaminated the evidence! Why didn't I think of that at the time?"

"Ray--"

"No, Fraser, you don't understand -- people get _fired_ for contaminating evidence, they lose their _careers_ for it. I got promoted."

"Ray--"

"That doesn't seem right, does it? I mean, that I got promoted when I could have screwed up the case. Fuck, maybe I _did_ screw up the case and now Beth Botrelle is going--"

"RAY!"

"Geez, Fraser, you don't gotta shout. What?"

"Maybe you could finish the story?"

Ray shrugged and continued, sounding a considerably less panicky than before. "So I found the body, contaminated the evidence, and then found Beth Botrelle in the bathroom taking a shower. She had all of her clothes on and she looked really freaked out. Later we found out that she had made death threats to her husband in public because he was having an affair with, like, everyone."

Fraser considered that. "And that's why she was convicted?"

Ray thought for a minute and then shook his head. "I don't remember. Sorry, Fraser. I think the alcohol screwed with my brain, because my memory ain't what it used to be."

"Well, your parents aren't due to arrive until dinnertime. We could see if Lieutenant Welsh will let us look at the case file."

The offer was worth it for the look on Ray's face. "That would be... that would be greatness. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Ray. Just give me a moment to get changed and to make a phone call." Fraser went to the dresser and was opening the top drawer when Ray asked, "Uh, Fraser? I though you clothes were out in the living room?"

"Oh, no, Ray," Fraser said, appalled. "Those are for when your parents arrive."

A smile blossomed on Ray's face. "You're a freak," he said fondly, standing up and moving over to stand next to Fraser. "You're a freak and I love you." Without hesitation, Ray wrapped Fraser up in a hug.

Fraser stood there frozen for just a moment, then returned the hug with vigor. "I love you, too," he said. For some reason, it was easier to say with his face tucked into Ray's neck and, given half a chance, Fraser decided he would like to say it again.

oOo

Lieutenant Welsh met them at the front door of the precinct. "Ah, Fraser, Kowalski. Fancy meeting you here. Come to my office. I have some paperwork for Kowalski to sign."

In a softer voice, he added, "Whatever you do, keep your mouth shut in the bullpen."

The reasoning behind the admonishment soon became clear. Detective Dewey was standing at a large white board, carefully sketching out a large number three. As he finished, the large circle of policemen around him broke out in cheers.

Fraser could see Ray tense at the sight, but fortunately he managed to contain his temper until they were safely behind the closed door of Lieutenant Welsh's office. "What the fuck?"

"Calm down, Kowalski."

"But they--"

"They're celebrating the impending execution of a cop killer," Welsh said calmly. "And while you appear to suddenly have doubts about Ms. Botrelle's guilt, they do not."

Looking combative, Ray opened his mouth. Fraser hastened to intervene. "Perhaps we should look at the file, first?" They both looked at Welsh.

Welsh cleared his throat. "As neither of you are currently associated with the Chicago Police Department, I cannot show you the Beth Botrelle file." Ray opened his mouth, looking indignant. "Now, I have to use the facilities. I trust that everything on my desk will be exactly as it was when I return?"

Understanding filled Ray's eyes and Fraser smiled. "Of course, sir."

Welsh just harrumphed. "Kowalski, I do have some paperwork for you to sign. Be here when I get back."

"Absolutely, sir," Ray answered, bouncing on the balls of his feet. As soon as Welsh shut the door behind him, Ray spun towards the desk. "Come on, Fraser, we don't got long."

The search for the file was brief, as it was conveniently sitting on the corner of the desk and soon Fraser and Ray were flipping through the pages. "Sam Franklin was the lead detective," Fraser noted. "He and Jake Botrelle were partners and were investigating potential union corruption at the waterside warehouses."

"Yeah, we'll probably want to talk to him," Ray said. "Union fights can be dangerous if the stakes are high enough." He flipped another page. "Here's the evidence list." He chewed on his lip. "Wish we could take it with us."

"I believe Lieutenant Welsh's fax machine also serves as a copier." Fraser deftly undid all of the clasps in the file and passed the paper over. As Ray made the copy, he added, "It looks like one of the women Detective Botrelle was having an affair with was the wife of the District Attorney. Robert Bedford?"

Ray snorted. "I forgot about that. Ordinary Bob. I saw him on the news last night. State's Attorney now, and gunning for governor." He pulled the copy off of the machine and stuffed it in his pocket. "I've heard he's a dick."

"Adultery is frequently a motive for murder," Fraser said, threading the evidence sheet back into the file. "We should investigate the accusation."

"Welsh is coming. Close the file!"

By the time Welsh entered the office, Fraser and Ray were safely on the other side of the room and the file was closed. Ray barely waited before the door was closed before saying, "I need to see her, sir. Can you get me in to see her?"

Welsh shook his head regretfully. "If you were a cop, I could. As a concerned citizen, the only person who could get you visitation would be Ms. Botrelle's lawyer." As Ray chewed that over, Welsh added, "Here's the paperwork for the motor pool job. If you sign them here, I can get them filed with HR on Monday and you can start on Wednesday."

Ray brightened considerably. "That'd be great, sir. Uh, you have a pen I can use?"

Signing the paperwork and making their farewells was but a matter of minutes and soon Fraser and Ray found themselves on the front steps of the precinct house. "Where to next, Fraser?"

Fraser considered their options. They had about two hours before they needed to return to the apartment to begin cooking dinner for Ray's parents. That probably didn't leave them enough time to track down Detective Franklin or Beth Botrelle's lawyer and he doubted State's Attorney Bedford worked on Fridays. "Perhaps the evidence warehouse? It's only two blocks over from here."

"Greatness," Ray said, already moving towards his car. "Though I have to warn you that we're going to have to be kind of sneaky to get in."

oOo

'Sneaky' was not the word that Fraser would have used. 'Devious', perhaps. Maybe 'illegal'. Still, what's done was done and it wasn't like he could give vent to his unease inside the warehouse where there was a chance they could be heard and found out.

It took quite a while to find the box they were looking for and Fraser was starting to fear that their illicit activities would prove to be a waste before Ray located the box in question. It was on a top shelf and they were forced to crouch quite close together on the ladder, which Fraser found inexplicably distracting. As a result, it wasn't until Ray exclaimed "what the fuck?" that Fraser realized something was wrong.

"It's not here," Ray snapped, rifling through the evidence bags. "It was bag twenty-six, I know it was, because Franklin wrote the number on the bag right after I put the paper in it."

"Do you still have the evidence list?" Ray passed it over with a scowl. "Item twenty-six is marked as sunglasses."

"The fuck?" He snatched the paper back and looked at it. "Okay, something is not right here, because I swear I'm remembering that correctly." His face fell. "Unless it's the alcohol. Fuck. Maybe it's the alcohol."

"I don't think it is," Fraser said calmly.

"Really? Why not?"

"Because bag twenty-six does not contain sunglasses either. Also, bag one does not contain a bullet, bag seven does not contain a purse, and bag 106 does not contain an eyebrow pencil."

Ray stared at him for a moment, then checked the paper in his hand. "Did you memorize the list?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course not, Ray. I merely chose a few random items to check. Ah-ha. I think I've found it." He pulled a bag out of the pile in the box and held it up.

Ray inspected it. "I don't think that's it, Fraser."

Fraser frowned. "It's the only paper in the box."

"That can't be right. I mean, that paper has some blood on it, but there are some white spots, see? The paper I found was drenched in blood. Completely soaked. It was dripping blood on the floor."

"Ah." Fraser thought about that. "Ray, who would be able to tamper with evidence in this fashion? Especially such widespread tampering?"

"Well, the forensics guys, I guess. And any detectives working on the case."

"And patrolmen on the case?"

"No," Ray said, already shaking his head. "We're out of it once the detectives are brought on board. I was never alone with any of the evidence."

Fraser nodded thoughtfully. "And if the crime scene investigators wanted to sabotage a case, wouldn't there be other, less evident ways to do so? All they would need to do would be to misinterpret or replace some test results. Such mishandling would likely never be discovered unless the defense brought in their own expert witnesses--"

"--which most defendants can't afford," Ray finished. "Which means we're looking at one of the detectives on the case?"

"That seems to be the logical conclusion. How many detectives worked this particular case?"

"Just one," Ray breathed. "Sam Franklin. He was Botrelle's partner and refused to work with anyone else on this case besides me."

"And you were already compromised due to the contaminated evidence."

"And I was a rookie. It never occurred to me to question Franklin's work. I just went wherever he told me to go and asked whatever questions he told me to ask." Ray buried his face in his hands. "Oh my God."

"It's not your fault, Ray," Fraser said gently, wishing he had the courage to embrace Ray. The most he could bring himself to do, however, was to pat Ray on the shoulder, castigating himself as an emotional coward the entire time. "You were young and inexperienced. You cannot be held responsible if your superior officer took advantage."

"Whatever you say," Ray said, his voice suspiciously watery. He swiped a hand across his eyes then looked up. "Come on, we've got some investigating to do."

"I'm afraid we don't have time for more today," Fraser said firmly. "We still need to shop for groceries and start dinner before your parents arrive."

Ray wavered, and then sighed. "Fine. But first thing tomorrow, we do some digging on Jake Botrelle and Sam Franklin."

"Of course," Fraser said immediately. Frankly, he was just happy that Ray had given in so easily. If Ray had pushed the point, Fraser wasn't at all sure he'd have been able to say no again.

oOo

Ray was a bundle of frustration as he and Fraser did the grocery shopping, but by the time they got home he had managed to calm down some. Mostly this was because Fraser was getting increasingly tense and one of the two of them had to keep their shit together.

Even with the inverse nervousness law, Ray was feeling a bit high-strung. This would only be his second meeting with his parents in over twenty years. God, what if they asked what he'd been doing in the last couple of years? What if they asked about Stella? What if they asked what Ray was doing _right now_?

Oh, fuck, Ray was so fucking screwed.

But he'd be even more screwed if he didn't get this lasagna done and in the oven, especially since he couldn't ask Fraser to do anything to help. Fraser was still determined to learn how to cook, but after the last seven months Ray was about to give up on him. He was starting to think that licking all of that mud had ruined Fraser's taste buds for ordinary food.

With a lot of repressing of, well, everything, Ray managed to get the lasagna in the oven, the bread ready to be put in as soon as the lasagna came out, and the salad tossed and in the fridge by the time the doorbell rang. Fraser, who had been pacing the living room for the last twenty minutes, opened the door a quarter-second later. "Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski," he blurted out. "Welcome to our home."

Ray winced and hurried out into the living room to do damage control. "Hey Mom, Dad. Find the place okay?"

"Your directions were excellent," Barbara said, hurrying in to give Ray a hug. Over her shoulder, Ray watched as Damien sized up Fraser, who was currently doing his best 'guard Mountie' impression. Ray winced again.

As Barbara let Ray go, Damien held out his hand and looked pleased at Fraser's firm handshake. "Damien Kowalski."

"Benton Fraser. Very pleased to meet you."

Damien just grunted and came to shake Ray's hand as well. Barbara made up for it, though, by going back to give Fraser a big hug. "I'm so happy to meet you. How long have you and Ray been together?"

Ray flinched.

Fraser just smiled back. "I met Ray eight months ago. We became roommates shortly afterwards."

"Roommates, huh?" Damien said. He pointedly eyed the three doors in the apartment, one to the outside hallway, the open one that led to the bathroom, and the closed one that was clearly the bedroom.

"We could only afford the one bedroom place," Ray said quickly. "Here, let me give you the penny tour." Which, of course, consisted of just opening the bedroom door. For the first time, Ray was grateful he and Fraser had found those twin beds, because Damien relaxed visibly. Oddly, Barbara looked a little disappointed.

"Anyway, dinner's gonna take another twenty minutes. Why don't we all sit down and relax."

They moved to the living room and sat down. Fraser immediately popped back up. "Would anyone like anything to drink?"

"What do ya got?" Damien asked.

"Um, milk, orange juice, cranberry juice, water."

"I'll have a cranberry juice," Barbara said with a smile. "Thank you, dear."

"Anything with alcohol in it?" Damien asked.

Ray shifted in his seat. "I'm afraid not," Fraser said, and while it sounded polite, Ray could hear the ice underneath.

"That's okay. I've got some whisky in my car."

"Actually--"

"Fraser!" Fraser and Ray stared at each other. "It's fine," Ray said pointedly.

"Damien, maybe--"

"It's _fine_, Mom."

The room got really silent. "Ray, honey, is there something you want to tell us?"

Ray groaned and glanced at Fraser. Fraser, who was so determined to make a good impression on Ray's parents that he ironed his jeans. Fraser, who carried a cell phone these days, when Ray Vecchio had spent two years unsuccessfully trying to talk him into one. Fraser, who was doing his damndest to be supportive, but who couldn't quite hide the hope in his eyes.

Ray sighed. "Mom, Dad... I'm an alcoholic."

Fraser's smile was blinding.

Damien and Barbara's expressions were less welcome. "But, dear--"

"So that's why I found a hundred bucks worth of booze in the trunk of the car you gave me?"

Oh, damn. There went Fraser's smile. "Ray?"

"I didn't open any of them," Ray said quickly. "Dad can tell you, they were all sealed."

"But why--"

"You remember what happened a few days ago? Before my folks showed up?"

Fraser's eyebrows went down in concentration and then went back up as he clearly remembered coming home to find Ray staring at an open bottle of whisky. "Ah."

"Right. I got it all at the same time."

"So what you're saying is, you're still drinking," Damien said.

"No, I'm saying that I haven't had a drink in eight months," Ray snapped back. "And Fraser's been helping me with that."

Another silence, this time broken by Barbara. "Ray, honey, is it because of -- because of what happened to Stella?"

Well, geez, Mom, don't pull any punches. "Yeah," Ray said rubbing a hand across his face. "I mean, Stella and I used to fight about how much I drank, but when she was around I was able to keep it under control. When she..." Ray choked, but managed to force the words out in a hoarse, wheezy voice. "When she died, I lost it. Just... lost it."

The timer on the stove chose that moment to ding and Ray jumped up. "Gotta take out the lasagna," he said, not trying to cover his relief, and fled.

From the safety of the kitchen, he heard his mother, bless her, attempting to make small talk with Fraser. Her good intentions were derailed, however, when Damien suddenly said, "So, Fraser, what do you do?"

"I'm a constable in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police force," Fraser said, polite and proud as he always was when talking about his job.

"So you're a cop, then," Damien said.

Ray slammed the bread into the oven and snapped upright, his mind full of the way his dad had cut him off for deciding to go to the police academy and becoming a cop. Before Fraser had more than a moment to stutter a response, Ray had made it back to the living room. "That's right, Dad, he is a cop. He's a great cop, in fact, one of the best in Canada."

Damien raised his eyebrows. "Well he's not in Canada now, is he?"

Ray's hands clenched into fists, but before he could bring them up, Fraser was right in front of him. "Ray, may I speak to you for a moment?" He didn't wait for an answer before dragging Ray into the bedroom.

Once there, though, he didn't say anything and a minute later Ray heard shouting from the living room. It sounded like his mom. Ray laughed hollowly and banged his head against the wall.

Fraser stopped him, of course. "Are you okay?"

"No, Fraser, I'm not okay," Ray snapped back. He covered his face with his hands. "God, what a shitty day."

There was a soft knock at the bedroom door. Fraser patted Ray gently on the shoulder and went to answer it. Barbara stood on the other side. "Honey, are you okay?"

Ray forced his lips into an impression of a smile. "Sure, Mom. I'm fine."

"That's good, dear. I spoke to your father and he's promised to behave himself if you come back out."

Hah. Still, Ray couldn't exactly hide in his bedroom forever. "Fine," he said sourly. "But no more picking on Fraser."

"Best behavior," she promised, patting him on the cheek. It was hard not to smile at her then; he really had missed his mom.

Dinner was...stilted. Barbara did most of the talking; unfortunately her topic of choice was how Ray's brother was doing and what his kids were up to. Ray did his best not to hear any of it and even Fraser seemed to be hard-pressed to come up with enough polite questions to keep the conversation going. Frankly, by the end of the meal, Ray was just happy to be done.

Skipping the dessert (Ray was sure Diefenbaker would be happy to take care of the extra cookies), Ray escorted his parents to the door. Damien left with a gruff 'bye', but Barbara hesitated for a few seconds. "Ray, would you and Fraser come over for dinner on Sunday? You know I always make too much and your father doesn't like leftovers."

Ray closed his eyes and took a frustrated breath. He wanted to say no, he really did, but at the same time... this was his mom and a week ago he'd been sure that he'd never see her again. "Sure, Mom. I'd like that."

Her smile was blinding. "Thank you, dear." A quick hug and a kiss on the cheek and she was gone.

Ray slowly turned back into the apartment to find Fraser looking as if Christmas had come early. "Oh, shut up," Ray muttered.

"I didn't say anything," Fraser pointed out.

"You were thinking really loudly." Ray rubbed his face with his hands. "Come on, let's get this cleaned up and go to bed. I want to start back on the case first thing tomorrow."

"Whatever you say, Ray," Fraser said, and the fondness in his voice was almost enough to make up for the disaster this day had been.

Almost.

oOo

The next morning Ray and Fraser went back to the precinct, Ray staying in the car while Fraser went inside and presumably did that non-flirting thing he did that made women swoon. Whatever he did, it worked, because he came back out twenty minutes later with a box full of paper and files and books. "Apparently, Jake Botrelle had no family remaining and with his wife in jail, there was no one to claim his possessions."

"So they just held on to it?" Ray asked as he pulled out into traffic.

"Ah, it appears that no one wanted to take responsibility for throwing it away."

Ray snorted. "That I can believe." He decided they were far enough away from prying eyes and pulled into a parking lot. "Okay, what've we got?"

Most of the box proved to be random clutter: notes on old cases, half-finished paperwork, love letters from Botrelle's half-dozen mistresses (and how tacky was that?), old takeout receipts. Near the bottom of the box, however, Ray hit jackpot. "Fraser, look at this."

"Is that a bill?"

"Yeah, for a storage locker out on Tenth. Come on, let's go check it out."

"Don't we need a warrant for that?" Fraser asked, even as he boxed everything back up.

"And how, exactly, do you plan on getting a warrant?" Ray looked around pointedly at the lack of cops, judges, and district attorneys in the car.

"I see your point."

As it turned out, a warrant wasn't necessary at all -- as the owner of the locker was dead (and the person behind the counter was a woman), a few smiles from Fraser was all it took to get them in.

To find a truly massive pile of junk.

"Wow," Ray said, taking in the dusty furniture, the unlabelled boxes, and the stacks of what were probably framed pictures. "Apparently the Botrelles never threw anything away."

"That could work to our advantage," Fraser said. "If you would care to inspect all of the furniture and sundry, I will begin with the boxes."

Ray could tell that that was a nice way of saying 'go off and let me do the real work', but Ray had to admit that Fraser was a lot better than he was at skimming papers for important information. Which was why it was so surprising when Ray was the one who found the notebook, in the second drawer he opened. "Fraser, come look at this."

The two of them looked through the notebook together, finding endless references to mermaids and starfish. "It appears to be some sort of code," Fraser said.

Ray, who had seen this sort of thing while on the force, even if he'd never participated, stepped back. "It's a code, all right. Give Lieutenant Welsh a call and tell him we've got some new information on the Botrelle case."

Fraser was behind Ray and still on the phone when Ray stepped outside of the storage locker to find Sam Franklin on the other side. Holding a gun. "What the fuck?" Ray blurted, putting his hands up.

Behind him, he heard Fraser whisper something rushed and urgent to Welsh, for all the good that would do. They were twenty minutes from the precinct, damnit.

"Hello, Kowalski," Franklin said. "I can't tell you how sorry I am to see you here."

"Not as sorry as me, I'll bet," Ray muttered. Louder he said, "So you knew about the storage locker? I'm surprised you didn't clear it out years ago."

"Actually, I missed this particular detail," Franklin said. "Fortunately I heard that you and the Mountie were sniffing around the case and I've been following you. Speaking of the Mountie, where is he?"

Ray blinked in surprise, but he managed to pull himself together enough to say, "He went to get us some coffee while we're searching."

"I guess we'll just have to wait for him, won't we," Franklin said. He gestured with his gun. "Move back, slowly."

Ray carefully backed into the locker, risking a quick glance around as he did so. Fraser was nowhere to be seen. Thank God he hadn't worn the uniform today.

Now he just had to keep the guy from noticing just how much time was passing. "So, let me guess, you and Botrelle were on the take?"

Franklin's eyes narrowed. "Did I ask you to speak?"

Ray shrugged as he best he could with his hands raised. "Look, can I put my hands down? They're starting to ache."

"You got any weapons?" Franklin asked, after looking over Ray consideringly.

Ray rolled his eyes. "Like I can afford a gun."

"You could afford a knife."

Ray sighed and lowered his hands just enough to be able to lift his shirt. He slowly moved in a circle, then let the shirt drop and lifted his pants legs. Another circle. Getting into the spirit of things (hey, that had to have been thirty seconds wasted right there), Ray pulled out his pants pockets. "There, satisfied? Or do you want me to strip?"

"I'm satisfied," Franklin said quickly. A little too quickly.

"Hey, there ain't nothing wrong with my body."

Franklin leaned back a bit. "You queer, Kowalski?"

"Bi." If God and Fraser were willing, at any rate.

"Figures," Franklin muttered. "I bet the Mountie's queer too, isn't he? He likes that uniform way too much to be straight."

Ray opened his mouth and then closed it again. Franklin had a point there. "The pants are kinda gay," Ray admitted. "But honestly, I think he's just really, really Canadian."

They stood there in silence for a few minutes. Ray let it stretch out as long as he could, until Franklin was starting to look impatient. "So, you and Botrelle were on the take, huh?"

Franklin's eyes narrowed again for just a moment. "Oh, what the hell. We've got some time to kill. Yeah, Jake and I were on the take, just like everyone else on the force. What choice do we got -- you can't support a family on the shit they pay us. And it's not like it was hurting anyone. Just a few dollars here and there and all we had to do was let the unions work out their problems on their own."

"Yeah, by vandalizing a few warehouses."

"A few broken windows," Franklin said with a shrug. "They were insured."

"Pretty slick, getting yourselves assigned to investigate your own crime."

Franklin smiled. "I wish I could take credit for that one, but it was all Jake -- he was fucking the DA's wife and she was the one who got Bedford to request us on the case."

Ray had to fight to keep his disgust off his face. "Yeah, well. What I don't understand is, why'd you have to kill him? I mean, you did kill him, didn't you?"

Franklin snorted. "Actually, the sap killed himself. Got word that IA was sniffing around our case and wrote a note telling all about it before eating his gun."

The paper. Ray closed his eyes and struggled not to be sick. "That's what that paper was that I found, wasn't it. It was the suicide note."

"Gone now," Franklin said with a smug smile. "And in twenty-four hours Beth will be dead and it'll all be over."

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that," a familiar, gruff voice said from behind Franklin. "It seems some new information has just surfaced in this case."

Franklin froze for a moment, then an oily smile spread across his face. "Lieutenant Welsh. Thank god you're here. I just found this man rifling through--"

"Save it, Franklin," Welsh said flatly. "We've got it all on tape."

Fraser suddenly stood up from behind a desk and held up his hand -- the one holding his still open cell phone. Ray closed his eyes. God, he loved this man.

oOo

More cops flooded onto the scene and Ray and Fraser were separated for several hours as statements were given, evidence was gathered, and press conferences were called. Ray kept his head down as much as possible during the melee and did his best to keep from being recognized. Which was why it was something of a surprise when a stranger came up to him once they arrived at the police station and said, "Ray Kowalski?"

Ray swore under his breath. "Yes?"

"You've got a phone call. Line four."

There was a phone on the desk he was sitting at. He stared at it for several minutes, but the light under line four didn't stop blinking. With another curse, he picked up the handset and hit the button. "Yeah?" he snapped.

A minute later, his anger dropped away. "Oh," he said, hollowly. "Okay."

oOo

An hour later, per Beth Botrelle's request, Ray and Fraser picked her up at the prison. She was wearing the clothes she'd gone to court in and they hung on her gaunt frame. She didn't smile when they pulled up and she didn't say anything as she settled into the front passenger seat.

Ray took a deep breath, "Where to?"

Beth turned to him, and Ray swallowed hard at the dark depths of her eyes, barely visible in the last red rays of sunlight left in the day. "Home," she said. "I want to go home."

So Ray took her home, to the house where her husband had killed himself and very nearly killed her in the process. He held her hand as she walked up the steps and he stayed next to her as she moved through the rooms of the house, reliving the worst night of her life, as she found her husband lying dead in a lake of his own blood and, while still in shock over her discovery, was arrested for his murder.

Ray apologized again and again, but in the end Beth cupped his face with one hand and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Officer Kowalski," she murmured. "Thank you."

oOo

Ray stumbled out of the house into the dark, barely able to see through the misty veil of tears that covered his eyes. He was almost at the car when he tripped over a rock and he would've fallen if a pair of strong arms hadn't caught him up. Ray immediately clung to the body attached to those arms and was grateful, so grateful when his embrace was returned and he could stifle his sobs on a warm, flannel covered shoulder. Soft, soothing words were spoken over his head as he cried out the anger and the shame and the fear.

Finally he finished purging himself, of the dark emotions and the tears, and his sobs faded until they were nothing more than a catch in his breathing. Peace settled over him, peace and calm, and Ray leaned back to look Fraser in the eye.

There was no fear left, no worry, and when Ray saw the love shining in Fraser's face, he didn't hesitate. He simply leaned forward and pressed his lips to Fraser's. And then a miracle happened.

Fraser kissed him back.


	7. A Christmas Coincidence

**Chances 7: A Christmas Coincidence **

The clock read two minutes to five and Fraser was very seriously considering sneaking out of the office a minute early. It was a transgression that would have appalled him a month ago, but now...

Fraser felt his lips twitching, as they insisted upon doing any time he remembered the recent change in his relationship with Ray, and he spent those last two minutes of his work time lost in pleasant reminiscences. Really, his work ethic of late was deplorable, but he couldn't quite find it within himself to repent.

Quickly shutting down his computer and turning off his office light, Fraser was just about to step outside of the consulate at 5:01--

--and very nearly ran over a young woman in the process. "I'm terribly sorry," he said by reflex. Then the bright red uniform registered and he added, "Constable. I'm very sorry, Constable. Ah... Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes, thank you. I have come to Chicago on the trail of two dangerous men, and I need your assistance," she said firmly and, oh dear, she was quite beautiful. Apparently even being in love with a man did not make Fraser's brain work any more smoothly around beautiful women.

"Assistance? Of course, assistance! Er, right at this moment?"

Diefenbaker yipped in derision, which Fraser thought rich considering the wolf's own laziness when it came to matters of duty.

The constable blinked. "I guess it could wait till tomorrow, though I was hoping for some recommendations for affordable places to stay."

Fraser considered the amount of time it would take to restart his computer and print off his list of local hostels, then considered how much time he'd already spent speaking with his fellow constable. It was a sad commentary on his current state of mind that both of those considerations were evaluated based on how much time he wasn't spending with Ray. "If you would like, you could stay in my office," he offered, finding a small comfort in the fact that she had an obvious bedroll in her backpack, and reassuring himself firmly that every computer in the consulate was password protected and the filing cabinets locked. "The accommodations are sparse, but free."

"That would be ideal, Constable, thank you," the woman said, smiling brightly.

It took a moment for Fraser to find his tongue again. "Not a problem at all, Constable--"

"Mackenzie," she said, holding out her hand. "Constable Maggie Mackenzie."

"Benton Fraser," he said in return, shaking her hand firmly. "It's very nice to meet you."

Constable Mackenzie stared at him. "Benton Fraser? You wouldn't happen to be Bob Fraser's son, would you?"

Fraser stared right back. "As a matter of fact, I am. Did you know my father?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid, but he was great friends with my mother."

"Oh, I like this one, Son!"

Fraser closed his eyes and stifled a moan. Just what this situation needed.

Either unaware of or indifferent to Fraser's distress, Bob continued, "A nice head of hair, good birthing hips, and a well-packed kit. I think you should grab her before someone else does."

Constable Mackenzie suddenly frowned, a hand rubbing her left hip. "Did you say something?"

Fraser snapped his mouth shut and turned away from his father. "Er, no, why do you ask?"

She shook her head. "Uh, never mind. Must've imagined it." There was an awkward silence until she added, "You said something about an office?"

"Ah, yes, of course. Follow me."

It only took a few minutes to help Constable Mackenzie get settled and soon Fraser and Diefenbaker were once again heading for home. A small voice in the back of his head -- the one that sounded like Robert Fraser but which was not _actually_ Robert Fraser and thus could be ignored -- derided Fraser's shameful laxity of late. With the prospect of Ray before him, Fraser found himself quite unable to care.

The moment Fraser stepped through his apartment door, a pair of hands shoved him into the wall. Fraser barely managed to get out a "Ray!" before his mouth was more pleasurably occupied.

Diefenbaker huffed and went over to his usual chair. He hopped up, curled into a ball, and promptly ignored both of his humans.

"You're late," Ray mumbled against Fraser's mouth.

"I am sorry," Fraser said, leaning back. "But we had a very late visitor to the Consulate."

"Yeah?" Ray said, absently, his eyes locked on Fraser's lips. "What'd he want?"

"It was a she, and-- it doesn't matter," Fraser said. He captured Ray's mouth again, nibbling lightly on Ray's lower lip before pushing his tongue further in.

Ray moaned and twisted them around. Lost in a sensual haze, Fraser didn't even notice he was being moved with a purpose until he felt himself suddenly pushed back onto the couch. Ray dropped on top of him a moment later and Fraser felt his passions flame higher as a hand brushed over his groin. "Ray," he groaned. "Ray. Ray. _Ray_. RAY!"

"_What_, Fraser?" Ray snapped, sitting up.

Fraser frowned, but he couldn't really blame Ray for the tone. "I just wanted to clarify -- does this mean that you no longer wish to 'take it slow'?"

Ray groaned and dropped his head onto the back of the couch. "You had to remind me."

"I am sorry, Ray, but you were quite clear on the point."

"Yeah, well, I don't remember you protesting at the time," Ray retorted. He sighed. "Sorry. I get a little grumpy when I'm interrupted in fellatio."

Fraser blinked. "Ah, perhaps you mean _in flagrante delicto_?"

"That, too." Ray rubbed a hand over his face. "I hate taking it slow."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "You know, Ray, the very idea of taking it slow implies that progress has not stopped. At some point, there is the opportunity to take the next step."

Ray's smile was so bright that Fraser could hardly contain his desire to push him back on the couch and entirely obliterate Ray's plan. "I like the way you think, Fraser."

"I am delighted you feel that way. Perhaps we should then adjourn to--"

"I'm thinking dinner."

Fraser blinked again. "Pardon?"

"Yeah, candlelight, dinner, maybe some dancing? On Friday, so we can spend the rest of the weekend in bed." Ray ended his proposal with a leer and Fraser couldn't help but smile back.

When Fraser had first hit puberty, his grandmother had given him clear instructions on his duties before, during, and after a romantic interlude, but she'd never quite managed to convey the intricacies of romance. For Ray romance was as instinctive as breathing, and thus Fraser was more than happy to cede that portion of their relationship into Ray's exceptionally well-formed hands.

"Also, we need to get a new bed."

Fraser dragged his attention back to the conversation at hand. "That is an excellent idea. The twin beds, while entirely adequate for--"

"I'm thinking king size," Ray cut in with a leer. "That way we'll have plenty of room to roll around."

Fraser's cheeks burned, even as he answered, "While that sounds delightful, I'm not entirely confident a king size bed will fit into the bedroom with any degree of comfort."

Ray shrugged dismissively. "A king's just two twins put together and we already have two twins in there."

"Ah, but we'll want to add a second nightstand," Fraser pointed out. "Since we'll no longer have the lamp between us."

Ray smiled at that. "Fair enough. We'll get a queen size. But _not_ second-hand. I want us to buy something that only we've used. I want it to be _our_ bed."

_Like breathing_, Fraser thought with a smile. "Agreed," he said, then dragged Ray back down for a few more minutes of necking before dinner.

oOo

The next day Fraser found himself walking to work with just a bit more spring in his step, the light coating of snow bringing a healthy ruddiness to his cheeks, the sound of Christmas carols--"

"Fraser! Hey, Fraser!"

Fraser sighed and swallowed a pointed comment about the appropriate way to hail an acquaintance, even an acquaintance who once lived in the same building. "Ah, Mr. Mustafi. I hadn't anticipated the good fortune to encounter you today."

Mr. Mustafi crouched over, gasping for breath. "I'm so glad I caught you," he wheezed. "You've got to help us."

Fraser frowned. "May I ask who is in need of assistance?"

"It's my new apartment building," Mr. Mustafi said, finally managing to stand upright. "The landlord sold the building and the new owner wants us all to move out. He's not too picky about how we get convinced."

"That sounds rather like the situation with Mr. Taylor," Fraser said, his frown deepening. Mr. Mustafi nodded. "What is this new owner's name?"

Mr. Mustafi relaxed a hair. "Warfield. He owns a lot of nightclubs in town, and I heard he wants to convert our building for a new one."

"Do you know his first name?" Fraser asked while filing the last name into his mind.

Mr. Mustafi shook his head. "Do you need it?"

In Fraser's experience the police were likely to already know about a man criminal enough to perpetrate violence upon innocent people just to facilitate the termination of a contract, so he shook his head in return. I'll look into it," he promised.

"Thanks, Fraser," Mr. Mustafi said with obvious relief. "I knew we could count on you."

Fraser picked up the pace as he completed his commute. He was so lost in planning a call to Lieutenant Welsh that he very nearly ran into the man in question standing on the Consulate's steps. "Oh, dear. I'm very sorry, sir."

Then Fraser noticed his superior standing next to Welsh and an unpleasant sensation took up residence in his stomach. "Inspector Thatcher," he said, unconsciously coming to parade rest. "Is something the matter?"

"I'll say something's the matter," she answered tartly. "Did you or did you not have a woman in the consulate last night?"

Diefenbaker whined and cravenly fled inside.

Fraser's eyes widened. "No, sir! I mean, technically she was a woman, but--"

Lieutenant Welsh cut in before Inspector Thatcher stopped sputtering enough to get out a sentence. "Would this possible woman's name be Maggie Mackenzie?"

"Yes, sir," Fraser said, relieved. "Constable Maggie Mackenzie. She needed a place to stay for the night and I offered her my office to save her the cost of lodgings for the night."

Thatcher finally recovered her voice enough to say, "What _Ms_. Mackenzie neglected to inform you of is that she is on indefinite suspension from the RCMP for conducting an illegal investigation into the death of her husband, despite being ordered not to!"

"It appears that she used your computer last night," Welsh added, "to access both Canadian files and the CPD's database."

Fraser's blood chilled in his veins. He had thought his password sufficient security for his computer, but clearly he was mistaken and the cost... His access to the police database was a remnant of his time with the real Ray Vecchio, a rare privilege given only with the written consent of the police chief. To have that access be used in the commission of a crime was such an egregious dereliction of Fraser's duty that a reprimand would not even begin to redress the situation and that didn't even take into consideration the breach of the consulate's files.

Fraser snapped himself to attention. "Inspector Thatcher, I take full responsibility for the entire affair and will consider myself on suspension until you have decided upon the appropriate punishment."

To Fraser's utter bewilderment, the Inspector actually snorted at this statement. "Constable Fraser, how many staff does this consulate have?"

"Three, sir."

"And how many hours per day are we required to have the phones manned?"

"Ten, sir."

"And how many hours are we supposed to have a guard outside?"

Fraser sighed. "I see where you are going with this, sir, but--"

"No buts," the Inspector interrupted. "Your punishment is to write yourself a reprimand and to assist Lieutenant Welsh in finding this woman as expeditiously as possible."

Fraser stood at attention, again. "Yes, sir!" He started inside. "I'll check my computer. Perhaps Constable Mackenzie neglected to delete the browser history or--"

A clearing throat stopped him. "Constable..."

"Yes, Inspector?"

"There is something that might be of assistance."

Fraser frowned. Unless it was his imagination, the Inspector was blushing. "Yes, sir?"

"Per a recent administrative policy change, all Consulate computers were installed with a keystroke log."

Now it was Welsh's turn to frown. "Was there a particular reason for this 'administrative policy'?"

"There may have been some indication that some consulate employees were engaging in, ah, extremely inappropriate behavior while using RCMP computers." Welsh's eyebrows shot up quickly. "Not here, of course," Thatcher said quickly. "But a few bad apples dictate the policy for everyone." She cleared her throat and avoided catching anyone's eye.

Fraser didn't particularly care about the details. "The keystroke log will provide invaluable information," he said, continuing up the steps. He stopped at the door and looked back at the Inspector. "I assume I'll need your assistance to access the log?"

"Of course, Constable," she answered, and strode past him.

Welsh came up to join him. "Maggie Mackenzie?" he asked blandly.

"She told me my father was great friends with her mother," Fraser said with just a touch of defensiveness.

"Hm," Welsh said, his lips twitching as he walked past Fraser and into the building.

Fraser closed his eyes and counted to ten in Mandarin before allowing himself to return to his office.

Said office had already been cramped when housing Fraser alone; with Inspector Thatcher and Lieutenant Welsh sharing the space, the conditions were nigh on unbearable. Fraser focused his attention on the computer screen and tried to pretend he was alone in the room as he skimmed backwards through the log, moving one page at a time. As Maggie had been the last person to use the computer, the search did not take long. "Lieutenant Welsh, have you ever heard of a Mark or Mike Torelli?"

"Not off the top of my head. Try the database."

Fraser felt his cheeks burn as he accessed the CPD database. He doubted he'd have such access much longer.

The Torellis were most definitely not good citizens: they had both done time for assault and armed robbery -- apparently their favored targets were banks -- and had served prison time. Unfortunately, their current addresses were unknown. Fortunately, there was an address for Tommy Ellis, Mark's cellmate in Joliet. "He lives in Sherman."

"That's just a few miles away," Welsh said. "Come on, I'll give you a lift."

Fraser stood up at attention once more. "Permission to pursue Const-er Ms. Mackenzie, sir?"

"Go ahead, Constable," the Inspector said with a sigh. "Turnbull's on guard duty, so I'll cover the front desk till you get back."

Fraser winced, but hurried after Lieutenant Welsh. A few seconds later, the consulate door burst open and Diefenbaker scrambled to catch up, a scowling Inspector closing the door sharply behind him.

As they navigated the few blocks to Ellis's apartment, Fraser remembered that he'd wanted to discuss something with the Lieutenant and while was probably not the best times to ask a favor, Mr. Mustafi and his neighbors should not be punished for Fraser's carelessness. "Sir, have you ever heard of a man named Warfield?"

Welsh frowned. "Wilson Warfield?"

"Does he own any nightclubs?"

"That's him," Welsh said with a sigh. "Fraser, you do not want to get mixed up with a guy like Warfield."

"The man is using violent means to remove tenants of a building he recently purchased."

"That sounds like Warfield," Welsh admitted. "I'm guessing the building is rent controlled?"

"It seems likely, as most other contracts only require thirty days notice to legally evict tenants."

Welsh pulled the car to a stop in front of a large, run-down apartment complex. "Look Fraser, I recognize that the situation is shitty one. Warfield is a scumbag. He's already walked on four murder charges and I'd love nothing more than to put him away for something. But the fact is that he's protected _because_ he's walked on four murder charges -- unless we have ironclad evidence that he is behind the attacks on these tenants, Warfield's lawyers will just file another harassment suit against us and it'll be that much harder for us to ever charge him with more serious crimes." He got out of the car and shut the door firmly, perhaps to indicate that he no longer wished to speak on this topic.

Fraser frowned and got out of the car as well. "A crime is a crime, sir. It shouldn't matter who the perpetrator is or how serious the outcome, duty demands that all criminals be brought to justice."

Welsh stopped at the door. "Constable, I respect your faith in the justice system. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work the way it should." He jerked open the door to the building and this time Fraser said nothing as he followed.

They reached the third floor of the building without incident, only to discover that the door of Ellis's apartment was hanging open. Welsh immediately pulled out his gun and edged in front of Fraser. "Tommy Ellis?" he called, stepping into the room. "Chicago PD. Come out- damn."

Fraser stepped around Welsh to see a body lying in the center of the room. He felt his stomach drop. "Tommy Ellis?"

"So I presume." Welsh holstered his gun. "Was Constable Mackenzie armed?"

"Most likely," Fraser admitted.

"Damn," Welsh said again, pulling out his phone. "I'll call this in. I suggest you be gone before the black and whites get here."

"Yes, sir. With your permission, I'll access the database to see if there is any further information on Tommy Ellis."

"You do that," Welsh said, already dialing.

Fraser hurried back in the direction of the Consulate. Diefenbaker was clearly attuned to Fraser's urgency, because he was scouting ahead and then running back as if to reassure himself that Fraser was still behind him and in one piece.

They'd almost reached the consulate door when Fraser was waylaid again by Mr. Mustafi. "They came back," he cried. "Just after I talked to you. They said if they had to come back one more time, someone would get hurt."

Only a lifetime of habit prevented Fraser from saying something that would have disgraced the uniform. "I have already spoken to the police about Mr. Warfield," he said as firmly as he could.

"The police won't do anything," Mr. Mustafi retorted. "Warfield is too powerful for them."

Unfortunately, Fraser was hardly in a position to argue after discussing this point with Lieutenant Welsh. Which was a reminder that the Lieutenant was awaiting a phone call from Fraser. "I'll speak with him myself, then," Fraser promised.

Mr. Mustafi looked horrified. "No. No, don't do that. He'll kill you."

"Nonsense," Fraser said. "I am an officer of the law. Admittedly, not an officer of the law of this country, but contrary to popular belief citizenship in a particular country is not required to make a citizen's arrest."

"But--"

Fraser frowned. "Perhaps I am misunderstanding. If you did not wish me to speak to the police and you did not wish me to speak to Mr. Warfield, who precisely did you wish me to speak to?"

"The City Council," Mr. Mustafi said immediately. "They have a zoning meeting tonight to decide if our building can be re-zoned for the club."

"Ah," Fraser said, nonplussed. "You wish me to attend the meeting?"

"Make sure they don't agree to the zoning. Like last time."

Fraser winced at the memory; unfortunately his duty was clear. "I will be sure to attend." Diefenbaker yipped a reminder and Fraser nodded to him in thanks. To Mr. Mustafi he said, "And now, if you'll excuse me, I do have a pressing matter I must attend to."

"Of course, Fraser. See you at seven-thirty."

Fraser forced his face into a smile, despite the dismay he felt inside. Tonight was the night he was supposed to go Christmas tree shopping with Ray. Still, it was just one night. He could go shopping with Ray tomorrow.

Once at the Consulate, Fraser did a search on Tommy Ellis's other associates. Most of them were petty criminals or still in prison, but one name jumped out at him: Franco Zefferelli, a bank robber. Just like the Torelli brothers. Perhaps the brothers were attempting to build a new crew.

Fraser called Welsh to pass on the news and then made a second phone call to Ray's office and left a message that he would be late returning home.

At loose ends for the moment, and with the database already open, Fraser hesitated. He shouldn't do anything else. The database was only for official use and he had already completed the tasks for which he had been directed.

Except... this might be his last chance to access this database and Welsh had already said the police couldn't help him with Warfield because of a potential harassment suit. With any luck, he wouldn't even have to use the information he retrieved. On the other hand, if he didn't have the information and the zoning meeting went poorly, then he would have missed an opportunity to help dozens, maybe even hundreds of residents of Mr. Mustafi's building from being unjustly evicted.

Fraser sighed. He never used to have these kinds of moral dilemmas. His responsibilities used to be so clear. How had his life gotten so complicated?

oOo

It was close to ten when Fraser finally opened the door to his apartment, feeling as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Diefenbaker slunk in behind him and immediately headed for his chair. "Rough day, huh?"

Fraser looked up to see Ray poking his head out of the kitchen. "Better now," Fraser said, attempting to smile.

Ray smiled back. "Good. Dinner's almost ready, but if you want to come in and kiss the cook, I have it on good authority the cook won't mind."

Fraser's smile grew considerably more real as he joined Ray in the kitchen. One kiss turned into two turned into three, until Ray pulled back. "Okay, we gotta stop now or we're going to be choking down burned goulash."

"I thought you couldn't burn goulash," Fraser pointed out.

"Okay, that's true. But if we don't eat soon, my stomach is going to start eating itself."

"Actually--"

"Fraser? Tell me while we're eating."

Fraser smiled and stole one more kiss, then went to the cabinet to pull out dishes.

Ray'd made significant inroads in the stew before he said, "So, what's wrong?"

Fraser sighed and pushed his bowl away. He hadn't managed to eat much of it anyway. "Honestly, Ray, it's been a terrible day."

"I figured that," Ray said, scooping up his last bite and pushing his bowl away as well. "Come on," he said, standing up. "I think this is one of those things best discussed on the couch." He settled down on said piece of furniture and held out his arm.

Gratitude and relief washed over Fraser and he wasted no time in joining Ray. It took a bit for them to actually find a position in which they were both comfortable; Fraser finally ended up with his head in Ray's lap. "Enough stalling," Ray said, gently running his fingers through Fraser's hair. "Spill."

So Fraser spilled. He told Ray about Maggie Mackenzie and about Mr. Mustafi's request. About finding Tommy Ellis's dead body and about going in front of the city council and seeing every one of them vote to evict a hundred people from desperately-needed affordable housing, just to provide Chicago with yet another nightclub that none of those hundred people could afford to patronize.

When he was done, he just fell silent, feeling utterly drained. Ray's fingers in his hair felt like heaven, each stroke over his scalp taking away just a little more tension. "That sucks," Ray said, though his voice was unusually restrained, for which Fraser was grateful. "How long do the residents have before they're evicted?"

"Technically, six months, because the building is rent controlled."

"Think Warfield will give them six months?"

Fraser sighed. "Not a chance."

"So what're you going to do?"

"Confront him."

The hand stopped. "What?"

"He's hurting innocent people, Ray."

"That's what he _does_, Fraser. He hurts people. Did you know he killed four men? Four men that the police know about; folks on the street have heard about a lot more."

"You want me to let it go," Fraser said flatly.

Ray sighed and his fingers began moving again, carefully scratching Fraser's scalp. "No," he said softly. "I wouldn't ask you to do that. Just... be careful. Promise me you'll be careful."

"Of course, Ray," Fraser said shifting enough that he could work a hand behind Ray's back in the best approximation of an embrace he could manage in this position. "Of course."

oOo

The next day promised to be a busy one. Fraser decided to hold off on visiting Warfield until the afternoon, as he understood many club owners worked late hours and rarely rose early. In the meantime, he and Turnbull gathered in the Consulate's conference room to go through every article in the RCMP database and the pile of newspapers saved from Inspector Thatcher's Ottawa Sun subscription, searching for any reference to Maggie Mackenzie or her husband. Unfortunately, first names weren't always referenced and there were a lot of people named Mackenzie in Canada, not to mention Maggie's maiden name of Stern.

"It seems that Matt Stern was a prospector," Turnbull said, flipping through one of the copious stacks of printouts that nearly covered the consulate's conference table. "Killed in 1969 in a mine collapse."

"And Ellen Stern was a trapper. She moved around the country and apparently gave birth to Maggie alone in a cabin in..." His voice trailed off. "Oh my God."

"Constable Fraser?"

"Turnbull, can you tear out that article for me?"

"Of course, sir!" He immediately started tearing out the article. At the slowest possible pace imaginable.

"Never mind," Fraser said quickly. "I'll take the page."

With both his article and Turnbull's in hand, Fraser went to his office and locked the door behind him before knocking sharply on his closet door. "Dad. Dad, when I open this door, you better be on the other side." He opened the door. Nothing but coats was on the other side.

Fraser scowled and pulled the door closed again. "Dad, if you don't appear right now, I will completely ignore you for the next month."

He pulled it open again and this time there was an arctic cabin on the other side. "Hello, Son!" Bob said brightly from his seat behind his desk.

Fraser closed the door behind him, just in case, before claiming the other chair in the room. "You didn't mention that you knew Ellen Stern."

Bob brightened. "Amazing woman. She sheltered me in her cabin many a time after your mother died."

Fraser closed his eyes. That was exactly what he was afraid of. "Did you know she had a daughter?"

"Not that pretty blond girl?" Bob said. "You should snap her up, Son, before anyone else catches her."

At that, Fraser couldn't contain a wince. "I don't believe that would be a good idea."

"Why not? She takes after her mother: beautiful, intelligent and competent. You're not likely to find a better match in this city."

"She was born May 12, 1970," Fraser said. "Her father was killed April, 1969." Bob looked confused, so Fraser clarified: "He died over a year before she was born."

Bob frowned. "I'm not very good at math."

"Apparently," Fraser snapped.

"What are you saying?"

Fraser took a deep breath. "I'm saying I think it's fairly clear Matt Stern was not her father."

"Ellen always said he was," Bob said defensively.

"Oh, when you were warming yourself in her cabin?" Fraser retorted.

"Yeah," Bob said

"Yeah!" Fraser snapped.

He could see the moment the penny dropped. "Great Scott," Bob breathed. "You're not saying..."

"I am," Fraser said. "I didn't realize it before, but Maggie heard you talking about her hips. I think she can hear you."

"Well, Buck Frobisher can see me," Bob said. "I'm not his father."

"Are you sure?" Fraser asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"Well, I'm pretty sure," Bob said. Fraser rolled his eyes. "Why didn't Ellen tell me?"

"Would you have stayed?" Fraser asked pointedly.

"She used to say she didn't want me to feel tied down."

Fraser wondered if it was murder if you killed a man who was already dead. "Well, obviously you didn't."

"My God. She's my kid. I didn't get to know her."

"You didn't get to know me, either," Fraser pointed out.

"Yeah, but at least I knew you existed. You've got to find her, Son."

Fraser sighed. "How?"

Bob considered that. "She's a hunter. Find her prey and you'll find her." He beamed at Fraser, as if that advice had been at all helpful.

Fraser shook his head and stood up. "That's great, Dad, thanks," he said as he walked out of the cabin. "Once again, that's really practical advice..." He sighed again as he went and unlocked his office door.

Right now, he wanted nothing more than to either find Maggie and give her a hug, or find a criminal and arrest him with extreme prejudice. This seemed like the perfect time to go and talk to Warfield.

oOo

According to the CPD database, at this time of the day Warfield was most likely to be at his main club, the one he built first and the one that had administrative offices upstairs. As Fraser was the supplicant in this matter he left Diefenbaker behind; the wolf had discovered Turnbull's stash of maple candy and didn't complain in the slightest.

The walk was a long one, long enough for Fraser to burn off most of his frustration and ask for Warfield at the club's door with his typical politeness. The man who answered looked him over incredulously, but he made the call and in short order Fraser was escorted into Warfield's office.

He'd seen Warfield before, of course, at the city council meeting, but there the man had been on his best behavior. Today he didn't even bother to look up as Fraser entered the room.

"Good aftern--"

"What do you want?" Warfield snapped his eyes still on the paperwork scattered across his desk.

Fraser took a deep breath. "I've come to ask you to confess to the harassment of the tenants of the building you just purchased."

Warfield looked up at that. "Confess. You want me to confess?"

"Yes. Though, in lieu of a confession, I feel the tenants would be quite satisfied if the harassment was stopped and they were able to use the remainder of their lease to find alternate housing without fear for their safety."

"That's a joke, right?"

"No, sir."

Warfield's eyes narrowed. "This an official police visit?"

For one brief, brilliantly painful moment, Fraser wished with all his might that Ray Vecchio was standing beside him. Then he sighed and answered, "No, I have no jurisdiction here. I'm simply trying to see that justice is done."

"So. You walk in here, to my place of business, you insult me to my face, but you're doing it on your own time? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Well, I don't see that an appeal to your sense of justice is an insult. But on balance you're correct."

Warfield shook his head. "Get out of here," he said, redirecting his attention back to his papers. "Don't come back."

Fraser gritted his teeth. "I think you'll find that I'm not so easy to turn away."

Warfield glanced back up. "Don't test me, Mountie."

Fraser glared at him, but Warfield was ignoring him entirely now and Fraser had no remaining option but to leave.

oOo

He was halfway back to the Consulate when his cell phone rang. Fraser scowled at it, until he saw that the number was Ray's office number. Suddenly the entire world seemed brighter. "Benton Fraser speaking."

_Hey, Fraser_.

"Ray, I'm so glad to hear from you."

_You okay, Fraser? You sound kinda weird_.

"I just spoke to Mr. Warfield."

_Jesus, Fraser! Are you all right?_

"I'm fine." Fraser bit his lip, then blurted out, "And I have a sister."

_...what?_

"Maggie Mackenzie. She's my sister."

_What? When did you find that out?_

"Approximately two hours ago."

_Okay, that's it. I'm taking the rest of the day off_.

"Ray, you don't ne--"

_Shut up, Fraser. Am I meeting you at home or at the Consulate?_

Fraser smiled, warmth bubbling up in his chest. "The Consulate."

_Great, I'll be there in half an hour._

"Thank you, Ray."

_Don't mention it, Fraser_.

oOo

Fraser was not pacing the lobby waiting for Ray. That would be silly. Instead he was... inspecting the foyer for dust. A critical mission, naturally, as the foyer was the first part of the Consulate visitors saw and first impressions were extremely important.

By the Ray arrived, Fraser had not only verified the overall cleanliness level of the foyer, but had even dusted a couple of corners to improve the situation.

"Hey, Fraser," Ray said, grabbing him by the Sam Brown. "Turnbull, can you watch the front desk?" Without waiting for an answer, he dragged Fraser into his office and locked the door. "Hey, Fraser," he repeated softly, pulling Fraser into an embrace. "Rough day?"

Fraser tucked his face into the crook of Ray's neck and wrapped his arms around him tightly. "It's better now," he said hoarsely.

"Good," Ray said gently. "That's good."

"You didn't have to come," Fraser said, though he was desperately grateful that Ray had.

Ray just snorted and held Fraser a little tighter.

They remained that way for several minutes, until Fraser managed to regain some semblance of his usual control. With regret, he pulled back. "Thank you for coming, Ray."

"My pleasure," he said with a smile. "Though I have to admit, I have ultimate motives."

Fraser thought he probably meant 'ulterior' motives, but today he wasn't inclined to be picky about Ray's word choices. "Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Maggie. I think I know how to find her." Ray started pacing, gesticulating with his hands as he often did when he was fully engaged in a topic. "I was thinking, Maggie's a Mountie. And everyone knows that the Mountie motto is 'always get your man'."

"Well actually, Ray, the motto is--"

"Maintain the right," Ray said with a small smile. Fraser's surprise must've been visible, because Ray laughed. "Come on, Fraser. I've lived with you for eight months now. I'm not completely stupid, you know."

"You aren't stupid at all," Fraser protested.

"I'd kiss you for that, but we don't have time to get distracted," Ray said with a grin. "Listen, Maggie's a Mountie on a mission. If you were on a mission to find a bunch of bank robbers and you didn't know where they were, where would you look?"

Fraser felt ten kinds the fool as he realized where Ray was going with his argument. "I'd look in a bank."

"Exactly," Ray said, openly satisfied. "Course there're a lotta banks in Chicago. The key is to figure out which one they're targeting."

Fraser considered that. "We don't know where the Torellis are hiding, but we do know where their associate was up until a couple of days ago."

"Great," Ray said. "Let's go."

oOo

It wasn't quite that easy, of course: neither Fraser nor Ray had the authority to enter Zefferelli's apartment and Welsh was not immediately available to meet them, though he promised to be there in a couple of hours. Fraser suggested that he answer the Consulate phones while waiting. Ray just laughed at him and took him and Diefenbaker to the park instead where, despite all of Fraser's protests, he allowed Dief to talk him into buying a hot dog. Several hot dogs, to be precise.

Bellies full of preservatives, the three of them made their way to Zefferelli's apartment building. Welsh met them at the front. "Kowalski," he said as they made their way inside. "How goes the motor pool?"

"Motoring along, sir," Ray answered. "I'm learning more about the computers in the new cars so hopefully I'll get off oil change duty soon."

"Never underestimate the importance of a good oil change," Welsh said, stopping in front of a door. He knocked sharply. "Franco Zefferelli, this is the police. Open up." When there was no reply, he reached down and opened the door.

"Don't you need a warrant?" Fraser murmured.

"No," Welsh answered. "He's on parole."

"A condition of parole is that police always have access to your home," Ray murmured.

Welsh leading with his gun, the three of them made their way into the apartment, but it soon became clear that there was no one at home. While Welsh and Ray rifled through Zefferelli's belongings, Fraser and Diefenbaker studied a very interesting patch of mud on the apartment floor. Fraser was tasting it when Ray crouched down next to him. "I'd say that was disgusting, but these days I'm sorta excited about the idea of you putting things in your mouth."

Diefenbaker whined and trotted over to join Welsh.

Fraser spit out the bit of mud and grinned. "So am I, Ray," he said. "So am I."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear that," Welsh said. Fraser blushed; he'd thought Welsh was far enough away not to hear their whispers. "Find anything?" Welsh added.

"Mud," Fraser said, still staring at Ray.

Ray winced. "Okay, I am a little disgusted."

Fraser smiled. "Mud mixed with concrete."

"Like from a construction site," Welsh said thoughtfully.

"Indeed, sir. Is it possible to get a list of banks that are near constructions sites?"

Welsh was already on the phone and didn't answer.

"Nice work," Ray said with a seductive smile.

Fraser blushed again, this time not from embarrassment. "We wouldn't have gotten anywhere if not for your suggestion that we look at potential targets for the bank robbers."

Ray sidled up closer. "We make a good team, don't we?"

Fraser considered taking a step backwards. It was his _duty_ to take a step back. They were _working_ for heaven's sake, and it was utterly inappropriate to be thinking these particular types of thoughts while working, even if Ray's delectable lips were getting every closer--

"Gentlemen, don't make me separate you."

Fraser and Ray jumped apart as if bitten and Fraser could feel his face flaming. "I'm so very sorry, sir--"

"Don't be sorry," Welsh said gruffly. "Just keep your hands to yourselves."

"Yes, sir," Ray said with a smirk. Fraser fought the urge to hide his eyes.

"We have a location," Welsh added. "I'll be in the car. I expect you two to be right behind me."

Ray directed a wicked grin in Fraser's direction and the moment Welsh shut the door (Dief close on his heels), he pounced. Fraser attempted to evade the incoming lips. Well, perhaps 'attempted' might've been too strong of a word.

For reasons that didn't need exploring at that particular juncture, they were a few minutes late getting downstairs.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," Fraser said as they climbed into the car. "We were--"

"Trust me, Constable, I really don't want to know," Welsh interrupted. As he pulled into traffic he added under his breath, "Can't wait till the honeymoon's over."

"Hey, the honeymoon hasn't even _started_," Ray said with a grin.

Welsh sighed while Fraser's face turned bright red. Again. He was starting to suspect that he should just get used to the sensation.

oOo

In the end, they cut it very close -- three armed men were walking into the bank just as Welsh pulled up. Fraser was out of the car before it even stopped, his heart in his throat at the prospect of losing his sister before he even had a chance to tell her they were related. _Please let her not be in the bank_, he pleaded, though he wasn't even sure someone was listening.

Inside the situation was just as bad as he feared: Maggie was standing in front of one of the teller counters, a gun in her hand. The three men also had guns, all of them pointed at Maggie.

"Shoot her!" one of the men said.

"Do, something, Son!" Fraser glared at his perpetually inconveniently-timed father, losing several precious seconds in the process. Fortunately, Diefenbaker was not so easily distracted -- Fraser saw little more than a grey blur as the wolf launched himself at the closest gunman, bringing him to the ground. Fraser threw himself at the next one, leaving a stand-off between Maggie and the remaining gunman.

"Police! Put down your weapons," Welsh shouted from the door. The remaining gunman swore loudly, but dropped his gun. Ray came up to collect the various guns and ended up using one of them to guard the three robbers.

All in all, it was a near-perfect takedown, one of the smoothest Fraser had ever seen. Except for one thing: Maggie had yet to drop her own weapon.

"Maggie," Fraser said, standing up and leaving Diefenbaker and Ray to stand guard over the gunmen on the floor. "Maggie, put down the gun."

"I can't," she said, her voice shaking just a bit with the strain. "They killed my husband."

"He was going to turn us in," the gunman said. "What were we supposed to do?"

Fraser ignored him. "I know they did, Maggie, but we caught them. It's now for the courts to decide their punishment."

Maggie snorted. "What do you think they'd get for what they did? 25 to life? Parole in 10, maybe 12? Does that sound like enough justice to you? Huh?" She sobbed once, hard. "Haven't you ever wanted justice?" she said, her voice cracking.

Fraser's own throat felt thick. "Many times."

"So you know what it's like. That it's worth it." She angrily brushed at her eyes with one hand. "I don't have anyone left. I don't care what happens to me anymore."

Fraser opened his mouth and then closed it, glancing over at Ray. "Maggie, I have something to tell you--" Ray smiled at him and nodded encouragement. Fraser cleared his throat. "I-I'm your brother."

Silence filled the bank.

"You're what?" Maggie whispered, her face white.

"Your brother," Fraser murmured back.

Bob chose this moment to step in. "It's a shock, I know. And it's probably 28 years too late to be dispensing advice...but you better let the law handle this."

Fraser blinked. That was actually almost helpful.

"Wait," Maggie said. "If Fraser's my brother, does that make you--"

"Who are you talking to?" the gunman asked.

"Maybe we should discuss this outside," Fraser suggested to Maggie. "If you could just give me your weapon."

Maggie hesitated for a long moment, then turned the gun over in her hand and offered it handle-first to Fraser. "I think we need to talk," she said.

"We do indeed," Fraser said, taking the gun and handing it over to Ray. "In fact, there's one thing I've been wondering: how did you guess my password on the Consulate computer?"

Maggie quickly glanced over at Bob, who in turn found something very fascinating on the ceiling. "I thought I was imagining it, but, well, it worked," she said.

Fraser glared at his father. "Clearly you and I are not the only ones in need of a talk." A familiar and very welcome sound teased at his ear. "Ah, I believe backup is just about to arrive. Once they do, perhaps you and I can return to the Consulate. There are a few...issues that need to be addressed."

"My suspension," Maggie guessed.

"That would be first and foremost," Fraser admitted. "Though, once everything has been resolved to the Inspector's satisfaction, perhaps you would like to stay with Ray and I for the remainder of your visit. Our apartment has considerably more room than my office."

Ray and Diefenbaker came jogging out, just as several uniformed officers entered. "You tell her yet that she's a sister-in-law?" Ray asked.

Maggie looked back and forth between the two of them. "You're married? I didn't think you could do that here."

"Not officially," Ray said with a smile. "But we've been living together for eight months."

"Ray," Fraser said chidingly.

"What?" he asked with mock innocence.

"I've invited Maggie to stay with us for the duration of her time in Chicago." Which, of course, would make it impossible to hide their twin beds from her.

"Oh, well, in that case, we've only been _together_ together for a few weeks. In fact, we're about to celebrate our very first Christmas together. Can you stay for that?"

Maggie looked at Ray and then Fraser and then Ray again. Fraser couldn't hope to match Ray's open expression of hope, but he did his best to convey through both body language and facial expression that he very much wished Maggie to stay, at least for a few days.

"How about a definite yes for tonight, and a maybe for later," Maggie offered. "I'll know more once I check in with my superiors."

"Greatness," Ray said brightly. "That means you can help us pick out a Christmas tree."

Maggie smiled at him. "I like big ones."

Ray grinned back. "My kind of woman."

oOo

As soon as Welsh gave them permission to leave, Ray grabbed a cab home to get dinner started. Diefenbaker, always first and foremost loyal to the man with the food, joined him. That left Fraser and Maggie to walk back to the Consulate, with a certain pesky ghost dogging their heels.

"So," Maggie said once they were far enough away from the bustle to be heard without shouting. "You're my brother."

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes!" Bob said.

"I know your father died a year before you were born," Fraser said, ignoring his father. "And I know that my father had a habit of," he cleared his throat, "warming himself at your mother's cabin."

Maggie looked about as happy to hear that as Fraser had been initially. "And he never told you that you had a sister?"

"I didn't know," Bob exclaimed. "She never told me."

"You knew when my father died," Maggie pointed out. "And when I was born."

"He's not good with math," Fraser said dryly.

Bob scowled. "No need to take that tone, Son. Everyone has different gifts."

"It doesn't take a math genius to realize that twelve months is more than nine, Dad."

"If I thought about it, I'm sure I would have realized," Bob said defensively. "It just never occurred to me that Ellen would lie about such a thing."

"It doesn't matter anymore," Maggie said. "Not really. Though... I thought I heard that you were dead."

"I am," Bob said. "But that's no reason for me to sit around all day doing nothing."

Fraser sighed. This was promising to be a very long walk indeed.

oOo

By the time they reached the consulate, Maggie and Fraser had managed to convince Bob to give them some time alone and also to get the outlines of each other's lives. Their childhoods had been similar: Fraser had moved constantly as a child as he and his grandparents had traveled from town to town carrying the local library, while Maggie had moved constantly around the country helping her mother set traps for fur animals. They both grew up learning about the outdoors, Maggie with her mother and Fraser with Quinn. They both had a spotty education, gathered when and where it was available, and because of it, they had both developed a love of reading at an early age. They both considered duty to be the central focus of their lives.

"Well, at least until I met Casey," Maggie said. "I still cared about the job, of course, but Casey always came first."

"I understand," Fraser said. "Ever since Ray and I started... well, I guess you could call it dating... I've found it more and more difficult to do my duty."

"It's tough at first," Maggie said. "When Casey and I first started dating, there were days when I wanted nothing more than to skip work entirely to spend the day with him."

"Yes," Fraser breathed. "I haven't done such a thing yet, but I must admit that the prospect is a tempting one."

Maggie laughed. "Don't worry, it gets better. Though, if you and Ray are anything like me and Casey, you'll always be fighting the urge to leave five minutes early, just to spend five more minutes in his company."

"That is certainly a problem I'm currently experiencing," Fraser admitted.

"I'm delighted to hear it, Fraser," Maggie said.

"So am I," Fraser answer with a smile. "But, please, call me Benton."

Maggie raised her eyebrows. "Benton?"

"It's my first name."

"But Ray calls you Fraser."

Fraser smiled, feeling just a hint of warmth in his cheeks. "He called me that for months before we started dating. I'm used to it."

"If you say so," Maggie said. "But if Casey had ever tried calling me Stern in bed, he would've been sleeping on the couch." She frowned. "That sounded better in my head."

"Maybe a topic better left alone," Fraser suggested as they walked up the Consulate steps.

"Good idea," Maggie said. She stopped outside the door. "Listen, Benton, whatever happens next, I'm thrilled to have found you. I've always wanted a sibling, and I could never have imagined a brother half as perfect as you are."

Fraser blinked away a slight stinging in his eyes. "I feel the same way, Maggie. I'm so very happy that we had this opportunity to meet."

"Fraser!"

Fraser and Maggie both started a bit and turned to see Mr. Mustafi running up the steps. "Fraser, they came back and, and..." He stopped to gasp for a few seconds. "And Mrs. Madlock is in the hospital. They said it's because you bothered Mr. Warfield this morning."

Fraser felt his body turn to stone. "Maggie, Constable Turnbull has Ray's number. If I'm not back by the time you're ready to leave, give him a call and he'll pick you up."

"But I should come with you," she protested.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," he said firmly. "You must clear your name as soon as possible and I doubt I will be back before the Consulate closes. If not, please go tree hunting with Ray. I will help you trim it upon my return."

"Benton--"

"Please, Maggie."

She sighed. "Okay, but be careful. I'm not ready to be an only child again."

He smiled at that. "Nether am I," he answered.

There was an awkward moment where neither one seemed to know what to do, then Maggie leaned forward to give Fraser a quick embrace. He returned it gratefully. "Good luck," he murmured.

"Same to you."

They separated and Maggie offered a quick smile before stepping inside the Consulate.

Fraser waited until she was inside, then straightened his spine. "Mr. Mustafi, please go and stay with Mrs. Madlock to ensure that she has everything she needs."

"What're you going to do?"

"I am going to pay Mr. Warfield another visit."

oOo

Ray was starting to get worried. Well, that wasn't true. He'd been worried for a while. It was just that now he was starting to get worried enough to consider calling Lieutenant Welsh, even if it was going on eleven o'clock.

"I think we should go out and look for him," Maggie said.

Ray managed a small smile. He knew he liked this woman. "You get the wolf, I'll get my coat."

They were halfway down the stairs when Ray's cell phone rang and he quickly fumbled it out of his pocket. Fraser's number was on the caller ID. "Thank God," he breathed, opening the phone. "Fraser, where are you?"

_...r-ray?_

Ray's blood turned to ice. "Fraser? Fraser are you okay?"

_...no, no I don't think so._

"Fuck! Fraser, where are you?" Nothing just some heavy breathing. "Fraser! Tell me where you are!"

_An alley, I think. Next to Warfield's club._

Ray breathed a bit easier as Fraser grew more coherent and he started running down the steps two and three at a time, Maggie staying close behind and Diefenbaker quickly jumping ahead. "Okay, Fraser, we're on our way. Is the alley you safe?"

_I think so, Ray._

"Good, that's good. You hang tight then; we'll be there in just a few minutes." They reached the car and Ray pulled out his keys. "Here, talk to your sister for a few."

He tossed the phone over the top of the car and in the same movement pushed his keys into the car door. He gave everyone approximately ten seconds to get inside before he pulled out, cold engine be damned.

They were only a few hundred feet away from the building when Maggie closed the phone. "What are you doing?" Ray snapped.

"He hung up."

Ray swore. "Did he sound okay?"

"No," Maggie said flatly. "Can't you go any faster?"

Ray immediately pushed a little harder on the accelerator. "Call Welsh. He's in the contact list. Have him send an ambulance to Warfield's club. He'll know which one."

Maggie immediately started dialing and Ray focused on his driving. He wouldn't do Fraser any good if he got in an accident before they got to the club.

Though, he had to admit that plowing his car right through Warfield's front doors sounded pretty good right now.

Thanks mostly to the limited traffic, they managed to get to the club intact and Ray drove the car up onto the curb in lieu of actually searching for parking. All three of them burst out of the car and Diefenbaker immediately took off for the side of the building. Ray and Maggie followed. By the time they cleared the corner, Diefenbaker had found Fraser and was apparently trying to lick him to his feet. Maggie grabbed Diefenbaker and pulled him away and Ray just dropped down to his knees next to Fraser, his throat too thick for him to speak.

Fraser looked like a piñata after the kids were done with it. He was bleeding from the corner of his mouth, from his nose, from one ear, and from a gash just over one eye. His skin had that blotchy reddish-purple tint that that meant deep nasty bruises were forming under the skin and would soon turn his face black and blue. His hair was mussed and wet with what Ray feared was probably blood and he was holding one arm to his side as if either the arm or some ribs were broken. "Jesus, Fraser."

Fraser tried to smile. It was an utter failure. "I'm sorry, Ray. I should've listened to you."

Ray shook his head. "I don't want to hear it. Just... are you hurt inside any?"

"I don't believe so."

"Good," Ray said and he leaned forward and pulled Fraser into the gentlest hug he could manage, holding him so lightly that he could barely feel Fraser body through the thick layer of their coats. "Good. Because I'm going to kick your ass later, Fraser, make no mistake about it."

Fraser chuckled weakly. "I look forward to it."

Maggie cleared her throat. "The ambulance is nearly here."

Now that she mentioned it, Ray could hear the sirens. "Okay, before they get here -- what the hell happened?"

Fraser sighed and leaned into Ray, just a little. "I came to have another discussion with Mr. Warfield, but the doorman refused me entry. So I told him that I would remain here until Mr. Warfield was free. Several hours later, five men came from around the corner, pushed me into the alley, and proceeded to beat me."

Ray grit his teeth. "Did they say anything?"

Fraser smiled, though there was no humor in it. "Oh, yes. They said, 'Mr. Warfield sends his regards'."

"That son of a bitch," Ray ground out.

"I doubt that's actionable," Maggie said apologetically.

"It isn't," Fraser confirmed as the ambulance pulled to a stop and a couple of EMTs started unloading equipment. "Mr. Warfield is too clever for that."

"We'll see how clever he is after I kick him in the head," Ray growled.

"Ray," Fraser said sternly. "Promise me you won't do anything foolish."

"Sure, Fraser," Ray said. "I promise not to do anything you wouldn't do."

Fraser's eyes narrowed, but the EMTs finally made their way into the alley and hustled Ray aside before Fraser could say anything. Ray stepped back to let them work and nearly ran into a just-arrived Welsh. "How is he?" Welsh asked immediately.

"Beaten to a pulp."

"Warfield?" Welsh growled.

"His goons," Ray confirmed. "Though these probably weren't his usual guys. He wouldn't want to be connected to this."

"I think it's about time someone did something about Mr. Warfield," Welsh said, his tone clearly indicating that 'something' was a rough equivalent to 'kick him in the head'.

"I wanna help," Ray said, watching as the EMTs unrolled what looked like an entire pharmacy's supply of gauze. "Or else I'm going after him myself."

Welsh nodded sharply. "Don't worry, Kowalski, you'll get your chance. Just give me a day to set it up."

Ray gave a reluctant nod in return, then straightened as the EMTs got Fraser on a gurney and pushed him towards the ambulance. "Where are you taking him?" he called to them.

"Mercy," the bigger guy answered.

Ray was already starting towards his car. "You coming, sir?" he asked Welsh.

"I'll stop in tomorrow," Welsh promised. "I need to make a few phone calls tonight."

Ray nodded and climbed into the car. Maggie let Diefenbaker into the back, and then slid in on the other side. "What did the EMTs say?" Ray asked as they chased after the ambulance.

"They don't think he's too badly hurt. Mostly deep muscle bruises. He might have a concussion, though, so they'll probably keep him overnight." She took a deep breath. "Fraser mentioned that he'd probably need x-rays. Something about getting hit in the back with a board?"

"Oh, shit," Ray said, pushing that gas pedal down just a bit harder. "He got shot in the back a couple of years ago. The bullet was too close to the spine to remove."

"Oh," Maggie said faintly. "Oh, dear."

"Yeah," Ray said grimly. "Exactly."

oOo

By the time they got to the hospital, Fraser was already in the emergency room, and by the time they managed to convince the emergency room nurse that Maggie was really Fraser's sister (and Ray and Fraser were going to have a long talk about filing some paperwork when this was all over), Fraser was already in Radiology. The two of them ended up pacing up and down the waiting room, occasionally joined by a very worried-looking Diefenbaker. Ray shot nasty looks at anyone who even hinted that maybe an emergency waiting room wasn't the place for a half-wolf to be lounging.

It was over two hours before a doctor finally came in. Diefenbaker apparently smelled him coming because he beat both Ray and Maggie to the man and proceeded to give him a very, very pointed stare.

The doctor just petted Dief in response, and Ray didn't think he imagined the offended look Dief shot back.

"Miss Fraser?" the doctor asked, looking at Maggie.

"Constable Mackenzie," she corrected. "Benton is my half brother."

The doctor nodded. "I'm Dr. Franklin. Would you like to speak somewhere more private?"

Since there were only two people, a doctor, and a wolf currently in the waiting room, Ray bristled. Maggie spoke before Ray could, "This is Benton's roommate, Ray. As he'll be the one helping Ben with aftercare, I think it's best he knows everything about Ben's situation."

Ray blinked. Apparently Fraser and Maggie had more in common than the ability to track criminals via muddy footprints.

"Very well." Franklin led them over to some chairs, which Ray considered an omnibus sign. "The good news is that Mr. Fraser suffered no internal injuries in the assault. Two ribs are cracked and he has severe contusions, not to mention a very mild concussion but with rest and time he should be fine."

"And the bad news?" Ray asked, his voice raspy with strain.

"It's not really bad news, per se," Franklin said. "But the blow to Mr. Fraser's lower back did shift the bullet near his spine."

Diefenbaker whined. Ray wanted to. "Is he going to be paralyzed?" Ray whispered.

"Not at all," the doctor said. "In fact, it's rather fortuitous -- the bullet actually shifted a little _away_ from the spine, and angled it a bit further. My recommendation at this point would be to go ahead with the surgery to remove the bullet."

"What?" Ray asked in disbelief.

"That's great news," Maggie beamed.

"As with all surgeries, there is some risk involved," Franklin warned. "But all things considered, I think it would be more of a risk to leave the bullet in place. It sounds as if Mr. Fraser has a very active lifestyle."

Ray snorted. So did Diefenbaker.

"Have you told Benton, yet?" Maggie asked.

"He's still asleep. I'm going off shift soon, but I'll be back to explain the situation to Mr. Fraser tomorrow."

"I want to see him," Ray said firmly.

"Of course," Franklin said, putting him on Ray's good list. Actually, between this and the news that Fraser might not have to live with that damn bullet anymore, Franklin was pretty much on Ray's good list for life.

Fraser looked... well, frankly, Fraser looked like hell. The bruises had started coming up, turning his face into a mottled mess of purple and black, dotted with large patches of gauze. "Oh, my God," Maggie breathed, and silently Ray acknowledged that she was speaking for both of them. Warfield was going to regret the day he ever fucked with Fraser, Ray would make sure of it. Looking at Maggie's wet, angry eyes, Ray figured he'd have some help.

They stayed for ten minutes. Fraser didn't wake up once, no matter how much Diefenbaker licked him.

oOo

The next day, they returned to the hospital the moment visiting hours started and this time they had better luck: Fraser was already awake when they arrived. "Ray," he said with obvious delight. Ray beamed back. "Maggie, Diefenbaker," Fraser added, still quite cheerfully but without that glow that was apparently reserved for Ray. Ray beamed some more.

"Hey Fraser," Ray said, when he thought he could do so without gushing. "How're you feeling."

"Wonderful, now that you're here."

Sure it was sappy and Ray noticed out of the corner of his eye that Maggie looked terribly amused. So what? Fraser loved him, and that's all that Ray cared about. With that in mind, he perched himself right on the edge of Fraser's bed and claimed the nearest hand. "Did the doc talk to you yet?" he asked, threading his fingers through Fraser's.

"About the surgery?" Ray nodded. "Yes."

"And?"

Fraser sighed. "It's clearly the logical thing to do."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Forget logic, Fraser. What do you _want_ to do?"

"I'd like to have the bullet gone, of course," Fraser said, which didn't answer the question.

"But you hate the idea of surgery," Maggie said.

Ray looked over at her in surprise, then glanced back at Fraser to see him blushing. That was a yes.

"I'm the same way," Maggie said with a rueful smile. "I think it comes from growing up hundreds of miles from anything that resembles a hospital. Especially since that deliberately allowing yourself to be made unconscious in the bush would be akin to committing suicide."

"That makes sense," Ray said reluctantly.

"But it's also quite foolish," Fraser said firmly. "Leaving the bullet near my spine puts me at a much greater risk of paralysis. That is simply not a risk I am willing to take." He looked up at Ray. "Especially now."

Ray could have kissed him, so he did.

Unfortunately they weren't alone in the room; Diefenbaker had apparently had quite enough of waiting his turn and made his presence known by putting his front paws on the bed and leaning forward to lick both Fraser and Ray's faces at the same time. Adding insult to ickiness, Maggie started laughing.

"Maybe we should wait until later," Fraser suggested.

"Maybe we should wait till I visit alone," Ray countered. "Or until we send Maggie on a food run." He leaned over the bed to eye Diefenbaker. "Whadda ya say, Dief? Ready for donuts?"

Diefenbaker barked and, best of all, Fraser laughed. Ray just beamed a bit more.

oOo

They stayed at the hospital for most of the day with Maggie going out several times for food and games. Ray insisted that Diefenbaker go with her each time and then took shameless advantage of their semi-privacy to neck with Fraser as much as possible without making any of his injuries worse. He also conned the nurse into letting him be the one to give Fraser a sponge bath. All in all, not a bad day under the circumstances.

The moment he and Maggie stepped outside (Diefenbaker chose to stand guard at Fraser's bed), however, Ray's smile and cheerfulness disappeared like smoke. "Time to check in with Welsh," he announced.

Maggie, cementing her position on Ray's good side, went along without question.

They found Welsh at the precinct, along with a couple of detectives that looked vaguely familiar to Ray and who both promptly began ogling Maggie. She ignored them with a thoroughness that impressed Ray. "I was just about to call you," Welsh said. "How's Fraser?"

Ray glanced at the two semi-familiar detectives, both of whom seemed interested in Ray's response, though not so interested that they didn't keep sneaking glances at Maggie. "He's fine, sir, but he has surgery scheduled first thing tomorrow."

"Surgery?" the white detective said, sounding surprised. "I didn't think he was hurt that bad."

Ray immediately got up in the asshole's face. "And you are?"

"Detective Dewey," Welsh said flatly. "And this is Detective Huey. They're here to help us with the Warfield problem, so I'd appreciate it if you would desist with your bulldog impression."

Ray scowled, but backed down. For the moment. "They're doing surgery on his back."

"The bullet?" Huey asked. Off Ray's glare, he added, "It happened while he was still working with Vecchio."

Dewey snorted. "Yeah, because Vecchio's the one who shot him."

There was a tense pause. "Not that he did it on purpose," Dewey added.

"Perhaps we could bring this conversation back to a point," Welsh suggested. "Such as Warfield. The three of us are about to raid his club. Would you two like to come along?"

"Can we?" Maggie asked.

"For you, anything," Dewey said in an oily voice. "I'm Tom Dewey."

"Constable Maggie Mackenzie," she answered.

"Fraser's sister," Ray added pointedly.

Huey and Dewey backed off so fast Ray swore he saw skid marks. "I didn't know Fraser had a sister," Huey said casually.

Ray smirked. If there was one sacred rule among cops, it was never date another cop's sister without his permission. He wouldn't mention that to Maggie, though -- women didn't like that sort of thing. "So, a raid?"

"Perfectly legal," Huey said.

"Very annoying," Dewey added. Ray bet he had a lot of experience with that.

"Congratulations, Kowalski," Welsh said. "You've just been deputized."

"What about me?" Maggie asked.

"We still have a Canadian liaison on our books," Welsh said. "And I believe you are Canadian."

"I certainly am," she answered with a feral smile. Ray knew exactly what that smile meant, because he was smiling the exact same way.

oOo

With a groan, Fraser opened his eyes. Well, tried to open his eyes, anyway. It took several attempts before they did as his brain commanded and even then they felt heavy and sore.

Which, honestly, was a good description for his whole body. What on Earth had happened to him?

"Fraser?"

With great effort, Fraser managed to turn his head a few degrees, until Ray's smiling face came into view. "Ray," he said, though it came out more as a croak.

"Here, try these," Ray said, holding up a spoon. Fraser opened his mouth and received a few ice chips in return. Heaven.

"Thank you, Ray," Fraser said and this time his voice sounded closer to normal. His brain also chose this opportunity to remind him of where he was and why. "The surgery?"

"A complete success, according to the doctors," Ray said. Fraser twitched his fingers hopefully and was awash with relief when Ray took the hint and grasped Fraser's hand with his own. "There's a lot we need to talk about with the surgery. Now or later?"

Fraser desperately wished he could say later, but at the same time, he didn't want to be in suspense. "Now."

Ray nodded and used his free hand to scoop a few more ice chips into Fraser's mouth. "Okay, first of all, the surgery went fine. Bullet is gone, spine is intact, everything's hunky-dory. The only problem is that they had to cut through some muscle to get to the bullet and apparently those tiny little muscles in your lower back really don't like to be messed with."

Fraser could see where this was going. "How long?" he asked with dread.

"A week in the hospital," Ray said. "Then two more weeks of bed rest at home."

To his horror, Fraser could feel tears start to well up. "Oh, Ray, I'm so sorry."

"Don't say that," Ray said firmly. "You've got nothing to be sorry about."

"But our first Christmas--"

"Will be even better than we planned," Ray cut in. "Heck, how many people get a brand new sister for Christmas?"

A bubble of happiness managed to float up through Fraser's bleak mood. "Maggie's still here?"

"Here for the foreseeable future," Ray said. "Apparently you guys have been on a skeleton crew for years at the Consulate and so when Maggie put in a request to stay while you were getting better, they asked her if she wouldn't mind hanging around while they tried to find someone else to send."

"She's probably being punished," Fraser said sourly. "This seems to be a posting for the disgraced."

"Well then it's a good thing all of the best Mounties keep pissing off their superiors, isn't it?" Ray retorted. "Now, if you're done with the self-pity, I have news."

Fraser blinked rapidly and then flushed just a bit. He always was maudlin after surgery, which was the real reason why he was so loathe to go under the knife. "I'm sorry, Ray."

"Not a problem," Ray said with a smile. "I figure you've earned a day or two of bitching."

Anxious to change the subject, Fraser hinted, "You said you had news?"

"Right! Okay, so I told Welsh about what Warfield did to you."

Fraser blushed outright at that. "Ray, you didn't have to--"

"Shut up, Fraser. Anyway, once I told him, he was pissed, and he wasn't the only one. So, last night a bunch of us -- including Maggie, who is filling in as Canadian liaison while you're out of commission -- went to Warfield's club."

"To talk with him?" Fraser guessed.

Ray snorted. "As if. It was a _raid_, and he never saw it coming. We managed to arrest thirty folks for underage drinking and drug use before the place emptied out. It was a thing of beauty."

"What did Warfield say?" Fraser asked, with a rising sense of anxiety.

"He blustered for a bit, but Welsh stepped up and said--"

"I said that Constable Fraser has friends in the Chicago Police Department."

Fraser and Ray both looked over towards the door, where Welsh was standing holding a small gift-wrapped present. "And that we don't take kindly to someone hurting our friends. Hello, Constable. Good to see you awake."

"Hello, sir," Fraser said numbly. "I can't thank you enough for what you've done."

"No need to thank me," Welsh said, stepping into the room. Right behind him was Maggie, carrying a small fir with its roots carefully wrapped in burlap, and behind her were Detectives Huey and Dewey, both carrying presents of their own. "It was nothing more than the truth. You'll always have friends at the CPD."

"Even without Vecchio," Huey added.

"_Especially_ without Vecchio--_ow_."

Huey removed his elbow from Dewey's ribs. "Since you couldn't come to the Christmas party, we thought we'd bring the Christmas party to you," he said.

"Well, not the whole party," Dewey added. "Since that wouldn't fit into the room."

"Hello, sir!" Turnbull said, entering the room next to Inspector Thatcher, a large bag in his hands. "It's good to see you up and about! Or, as the case may be, down and prostrate."

The Inspector made a pained noise and stepped in front of Turnbull. "It's good to see you awake, Constable."

"Thank you, sir," Fraser said numbly, watching as Maggie arranged the tree on his bedside table, and Turnbull decorated it with a string of lights and some ornaments that had a distinct homemade appearance.

"We brought some grub, too," Ray said, reaching down next to the bed and lifting a bag of his own. "The doc said you shouldn't eat anything heavy, spicy, or fatty. So, you know, nothing really good. I'm saving you a little of everything for tomorrow, though, so be ready."

Fraser smiled at him. "It doesn't matter what I eat. I'm just happy to have you here."

"Me, too, buddy," Ray said, patting Fraser's hand. "Me, too. So, ready for some apple slices, minus the skin?"

"Wait, Ray -- what about Warfield? What's to stop him from continuing to harass the tenants of Mr. Mustafi's building?"

Ray's grin was positively demonic. "Nothing at all, Fraser. Well, except that after the raid, Welsh told Warfield that there had been some violence near the club and, to prevent such a thing befalling Warfield's clients, the police presence in the area would be beefed up until the 'citizens of this fair city' feel safe."

Fraser turned to Welsh, who was busy arranging a handful of presents under the tiny, festive tree. "Thank you, sir," he said sincerely.

"Just doing our duty, Constable," Welsh said gruffly. "No need to thank us."

"Thank you anyway, sir."

Welsh just harrumphed and wandered off in the direction of the truly impressive snack table that Turnbull was setting up in the corner and Fraser gave himself over to Ray and his plastic bag full of apple slices.

The next few hours were among the happiest of Fraser's life. Ray never left his side, except to occasionally fill his plate, and much of the time one of the other guests was sitting on Fraser's other side, catching up on the months since Fraser had been a regular presence at the 27. Maggie appeared to be getting along well with her new co-workers, though every once in a while she paused in her conversation to send Fraser a smile. Even Inspector Thatcher took the time to stop by Fraser's bed and wish him a Merry Christmas.

When the presents were open and the food eaten and Fraser's eyelids started drooping a little too obviously, Lieutenant Welsh came by and patted him on the shoulder. "Rest up, Son," he said quietly. "And don't worry; we'll take care of things until you're better."

"Thank you, sir," Fraser said for what had to be the tenth time that day. And yet, he had meant every one of them from the bottom of his heart. "I appreciate everything you've done for me."

Welsh just smiled and patted him again, then left, hustling his two detectives in front of him. Inspector Thatcher and Turnbull soon followed, and then Maggie (after a kiss on the forehead that made Fraser blush with pleasure). Soon it was just Fraser and Ray, sitting alone in the slowly darkening room.

"Thank you, Ray," Fraser said softly. "This was... this was amazing."

"I'm glad you think so." Ray suddenly frowned a little. "Huh. Where'd this come from?" He stood up and let go of Fraser's hand to cross to the other side of the room. There, next to the potted plant and almost hidden in the shadows, was a small, flat package, almost exactly the size of a paperback book. "Guess one got lost in the shuffle," he said, handing it over to Fraser.

A soft sound, like a throat being cleared, came from the other side of the bed from Ray. Fraser looked over to see his father standing there, a small, sad smile on his face. "Go ahead and open it, Son."

Needing no further encouragement, Fraser ripped open the paper on the present. Inside he found a picture, a black and white one, of his father with a hauntingly familiar woman. "Mom," Fraser breathed.

"Merry Christmas, Benton," Bob said.

Fraser smiled over at Ray and over at Bob. "Merry Christmas," he said. And, still speaking to them both, he added, "I love you."

Despite the fact that Ray didn't even know Bob was there, both man and ghost spoke at nearly the same time: "I love you, too."


	8. Last Chance to Say Goodbye

**Chances 8: Last Chance to Say Goodbye**

It all started with a stupid coincidence.

See, the Ice Queen decided that Turnbull really wasn't the best guy to decide whether the Chicago Plaza Hotel was the best spot for a convention of Canadian big cheeses (not that Ray could blame her), so she sent Fraser instead. And since Fraser was scheduled to have lunch with Ray that day, Ray came along.

What Ray didn't tell Fraser was that he had ultimate motives - namely that their anniversary was coming up and if there was one thing Ray had learned from his marriage it was that there was something hot about getting away for an anniversary, even if they only thing you were getting away from was your crappy apartment. The Plaza might be outside their price range, but maybe not. Ray'd had some success with sweet-talking check-in ladies.

At any rate, they were at the Plaza, heading for the check-in desk, when Fraser suddenly stopped right there in the middle of the lobby. Ray frowned at him, then looked around to see what might make a Mountie look like he just ran into a wall. "What's up, Fraser?"

"I thought I saw someone... there!" He took off like a shot, running for the elevator.

Ray followed as fast as he could, silently grateful that Diefenbaker wasn't here to make this even more of a scene (he'd agreed to stay behind after Fraser asked him very nicely, and then Ray bribed him with a donut). They didn't quite make it to the elevator in time, and Fraser immediately ran for the stairs, phone in hand. Ray pulled out his own cell phone and focused on the numbers lighting up on the elevator panel. When the phone rang, he answered it, "Currently at five and still going up."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser answered, not even breathing heavy. Ray rolled his eyes.

"Ten."

"Thank you."

"Fifteen."

"Thank-" _pant_ "-you."

Ray grinned. "Breathing a little heavy there, Frase."

A couple of heavy breaths and then a snippy, "Has the elevator stopped yet?"

"Nope. Yes! It just stopped on twenty-four. I'll meet you there." Ray hung up and darted into the nearest elevator, just beating out a family of eight.

When Ray got off of the elevator, he found Fraser standing in the hallway, staring intently at one of the doors as if he looked hard enough he could see right through it. Ray wasn't sure what was going on, but right now he really wished he still had a gun. "Sure it's this one?"

"Absolutely," Fraser answered.

"Okay, then." Ray took a deep breath, reached up a hand, and knocked.

A few seconds later the door was opened by a tall, thin, balding man with a tiny little peach-fuzz moustache.

Ray Vecchio.

Ray Kowalski cursed under his breath as Fraser suddenly grinned. "Ray!" Vecchio's eyes widened and he subtly shook his head.

Fraser apparently didn't even notice, as he opened his mouth again. To Vecchio's obvious relief, Ray cut him off, "What, Fraser?"

"What, Ray?" Fraser said, sounding confused.

"That's what I was asking," Ray retorted.

A gun suddenly appeared over Vecchio's shoulder. "Fraser, huh?" the man behind the gun said. Ray didn't recognize him, but between the gun and Vecchio's mob-guy moustache, he was willing to bet the gunman was a bad guy. "I knew a Fraser. He was a Mountie."

Fraser's eyes narrowed. "Muldoon."

Ray and Vecchio shared a very private look of put-upon annoyance. "Maybe you should go," Vecchio suggested.

"Maybe they should come in," Muldoon countered. Since he had the gun, his argument won.

As they piled into the room, Ray cased the place. Aside from Vecchio and Muldoon, there were three guys there. Probably mob goons. No second exit, unfortunately, but there was a bathroom right next to the hallway door if they got really desperate.

The 'married to Stella for fifteen years' voice in the back of Ray's brain noted that the room was pretty nice, but probably not worth the three hundred bucks a night. Maybe he'd check out the Embassy Suites - he'd heard the one near Lake Shore had a good view and wasn't too expensive.

While Ray had been briefly distracted by hotels, his body was shuffled along with Fraser's until they were squished together onto a loveseat clearly not built for men of Fraser's size. Muldoon still had his gun on them, though he was shouting over his shoulder at Vecchio. "You brought _cops_ to our meet?"

"Of course not," Vecchio snapped. "If this guy really is a Mountie, then he sure as hell ain't got no jurisdiction here in Chicago."

There was a brief moment as everyone absorbed the sheer obviousness of that statement. Then Muldoon snarled, "Who's his partner? Maybe he's a cop."

Everyone looked at Ray. "Ray Kowalski," he said with a shrug. "I fix cars. Look, we were supposed to be meeting some hotel guy to check out the rooms for some Canadian big wigs that are coming to town. Clearly they screwed up the room numbers. Why don't you just let us go and we forget we ever saw you?"

"We can't let you go," Muldoon said with a crazy-evil smile. "You'll go straight to the police."

Fraser, who had been looking quite impressed by Ray's story, opened his mouth. Ray elbowed him sharply in the side. "Why would we do that?" Ray asked.

"You saw my gun," Muldoon said.

"So you have a gun," Ray said dismissively. "So does every granny on the south side."

"You saw my _face_," Muldoon gritted out.

"Hate to break it to you, pal, but your face isn't all that exciting." Ray smiled sweetly. "Fraid you're not my type."

Muldoon snarled and cocked his gun and Ray was just thinking that maybe he'd pushed a little too far when Vecchio stepped up and neatly removed the gun from Muldoon's hand. "We take care of our own messes," he said flatly. Turning to Fraser and Ray, he gestured with the pistol. "Up." His voice and his eyes were cold and Ray felt a little chill running up his spine. He'd forgotten just how good Vecchio was at undercover.

Vecchio directed them into the bathroom and followed them in, shutting the door behind them. As soon as they were alone, he put the gun aside and opened the medicine cabinet. There was a pile of makeup in there, which meant Stella was in town, too, and Ray felt another chill. What the fuck did Stella think she was doing coming back to Chicago? Did she _want_ to get herself killed?

Unfortunately he couldn't say anything out loud, not yet, not while Vecchio was scraping a chunk of blood-red lipstick off of the tube and arranging it on his cheek. When he had it to his liking, Vecchio gestured to his ears and then pointed the gun towards the corner of the room.

Fraser cleared his throat and pointed at the toilet instead.

Vecchio raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

Fraser pointed again, more emphatically.

Vecchio shrugged, pointed the gun at the toilet and pulled the trigger. There was a tremendous splash but the water level in the bowl didn't drop any, so hopefully the bullet hadn't escaped. Vecchio waited a couple of seconds, then pulled the trigger again.

With a warning look, he stepped outside and shut the door behind him. Fraser opened his mouth and Ray rolled his eyes in exasperation and slapped a hand over Fraser's lips. Honestly, the man was ridiculously competent at some times and other times he was just plain ridiculous.

There followed a minute of so of muffled conversation and then the door to the bathroom started to open. Fraser and Ray both tensed, just in time as the three goons stepped inside.

The fight was a short one; between Fraser's brilliant if by-the-books boxing form, Ray's no-holds-barred scrapping style, and the element of surprise, the goons didn't have a chance. Once they'd mopped the floor with the bad guys and tied them up with their own clothes, Fraser and Ray stepped out into the bedroom to find Vecchio just finishing up a conversation on the phone. "Did you take care of my goons?" he asked, hanging up the phone.

"Piece of cake," Ray shot back.

"Good. That was Stella on the phone. She's on her way up. Muldoon's gone for now, thank God, but I'm meeting with him again tomorrow."

He stood up from the bed and held out his arms. Fraser immediately went in for the hug. "Hey, Benny. I missed you."

"I missed you, too, Ray," Fraser said. "I'm sorry for bursting in on you like this."

Vecchio let go with a shake of his head. "It's okay," he said with a smile and a pat on Fraser's shoulder. "I was tired of being undercover."

Ray was impressed - Vecchio was taking this way better than Ray himself would have. On the other hand, there was one issue that needed to be addressed. "Speaking of Stella, why didn't you just tell the goons that I was her brother?" Off Fraser's stare, Ray explained, "That's what we told them in Las Vegas when I showed up out of the blue." He winced. "I wasn't in great shape at the time and was following Stella around again. A couple of Vecchio's boys grabbed me, thinking I was a stalker."

Vecchio snorted lightly, but didn't offer an opinion as to Ray's stalker status. He just said, "We figured it'd be safer for her if Muldoon thought she was just a piece of tail, which is why I used local talent rather than bringing my boys from Vegas." He shook his head. "Vegas thugs are great at enforcement, but not so much at acting."

"I can see that you wouldn't want Muldoon to think Stella was related to someone who knows a Mountie," Ray conceded. "But that doesn't explain why she's here at all. She's in _witness protection_, Vecchio. It's not safe for her to be back in Chicago."

"Hey, she wanted to come," Vecchio shot back. "You ever manage to change Stella's mind when she was determined to do something?"

Ray opened his mouth to retort and then closed it again. "You have a point," he conceded. "Though that doesn't explain what _you're_ doing in Chicago. All it takes is one person recognizing you and you're a dead man."

"No shit," Vecchio said, scowling. "But the FBI is running a sting to bring Muldoon down for dealing guns and chemical weapons and I'm apparently the only guy they have undercover with enough clout to act as a potential buyer. And since Muldoon was set on meeting in Chicago, I-"

The door to the room burst open. "Ray?"

Two voices responded, "Yeah?"

Fraser beamed. "I knew you two would get along."

Ray and Vecchio exchanged an exasperated look.

Stella checked with Vecchio first, giving him a quick kiss and looking him over, before turning to pull Ray into a hug. "Ray, what are you doing here?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Ray said dryly, kissing her on her cheek. "I have a better question, though, what are _you_ doing here?"

Stella stepped back and crossed her arms. "Honestly? I knew this case was going to fall apart when Ray was ordered to Chicago and I wanted to be here when it happened."

"And how did you know that?" Fraser asked.

Stella's hands went on her hips, and Ray and Vecchio both winced slightly. "They had _Ray_ come back to _Chicago_, where he was a _cop_. It was _ridiculous_ of them to assume that nothing would go wrong."

"That is an excellent point," Fraser said quickly, with that deer in the headlight expression he always got when around a beautiful woman, especially one who was angry with him.

"What about witness protection?" Ray asked, crossing his arms. Stella wasn't the only one who could be stubborn.

Stella shrugged. "Ray's going to have to go in after this, you know that. Since I'm with him, we'll go under together."

"That's only true if you're married," Ray pointed out.

Stella and Vecchio exchanged a look and moved to stand next to each other, though they didn't say anything.

"Oh," Ray said. He was grateful when Fraser put his arm around him, and he leaned into the support.

"It seems congratulations are in order," Fraser said, sounding torn between shared joy and worry.

"I was going to tell you," Stella told Ray. "But we hadn't decided anything till this job came up."

"And then we were being watched too close to call," Vecchio said. "I figured with my luck I'd run into Fraser at one point or another."

Fraser beamed some more.

There was a sudden knock at the door. A few second later the room was full of men wearing black windbreakers. "In there," Vecchio said, nodding to the bathroom. The majority of the men went where directed, but one guy, who was wearing a black trench coat, rather than a windbreaker, went directly to Vecchio. "I wasn't very happy to get your call, Vecchio."

"Shouldn't have sent him to Chicago then, _Boyd_," Stella said. Her hands were on her hips again.

Clearly Boyd had developed some sort of survival instinct, because he just shrugged. "A year and a half is a pretty good run. And there's still a chance to get Muldoon."

Fraser scowled and Ray sighed. "Okay, enough already. Who is this Muldoon guy?"

For a brief, odd moment, Fraser glanced at thin air on the other side of him and his frown deepened. Then, with the air of someone ignoring something irritating, he took a deep breath and said, "Holloway Muldoon. He started out by poaching endangered animals nearly fifty years ago, but quickly expanded to arms dealing."

"You've known who he is for fifty years and he still hasn't been caught yet?" Ray asked.

"He is a resourceful, ruthless man," Fraser said grimly. "And for a long time he was protected by his friendship with a man in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, a man whose reputation was beyond reproach." He took a deep breath. "Robert Fraser."

"Ho-ly shit," Vecchio said softly.

"Fraser. That name sounds familiar," Agent Boyd said thoughtfully. "As I recall, Robert Fraser reported Muldoon dead a few months after Muldoon killed Fraser's wife."

A pin drop could've been heard in the silence that followed. "W-what?" Fraser said in a broken voice. He turned his head to the air next to him and snapped, "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Vecchio's eyes suddenly got real wide and he said quickly, "Agent Boyd, I don't think I've introduced you to my friend, Constable Benton Fraser of the RCMP."

Boyd, who had had a very suspicious expression on his face, suddenly looked sympathetic. "Oh. You didn't know?"

Fraser just shook his head numbly and turned away. Ray abandoned Vecchio and Stella to the agent and hustled Fraser over to the other side of the room, facing the window. "You okay?" he whispered.

Fraser shook his head again; this time the movement was fast and sloppy. "Why didn't my father tell me?"

"Didn't you say your mom died when you were five?" Ray asked. "Maybe he didn't think you were ready to hear that she was murdered."

Fraser looked mulish. "He's had plenty of time to tell me since then."

Ray opened his mouth to question the present tense, then closed it again as crazy, impossible connections started being made in his mind. The way Fraser talked to thin air, even when Diefenbaker wasn't there; the way that Fraser sometimes seemed to be listening, even when no one else was talking; the way that Fraser occasionally hid in the closet in his office at the Consulate having conversations with himself. The way that, not two minutes before, Fraser asked a blank space on the wall why it hadn't told him that his mother had been murdered. It couldn't be. No way. And yet... Well, it couldn't hurt to ask. They could probably use a good laugh right about now.

"Fraser, this is a little out there, but...well... you haven't been seeing your dead dad, have you?"

Fraser went completely, deathly white.

"Oh, shit," Ray said. "This isn't good."

"I know, Ray," Fraser said, sounding helpless. "It's impossible, I know. Crazy even. But he's standing right over there." He gestured to the air next to Boyd, who was arguing with Stella and clearly losing. "Besides," he added defensively, "Maggie's seen him, too."

Ray opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Well, you do talk to a deaf wolf," he said. "Can't get much weirder than that."

"Weirder than what?" Vecchio asked, suddenly beside them.

Ray jumped. "Christ, warn a guy, will you?"

"Sorry," Vecchio said, not sounding sorry at all. "Just wanted to tell you that Boyd and company are leaving." Ray glanced over to see Stella with a triumphant look on her face and Boyd looking distinctly disgruntled. "Unfortunately, you two are stuck here for a few hours, until they decide what to do with you. So, room service? It's on the mob."

Ray perked up immediately, ignoring Fraser's disapproving frown.

"While we wait," Vecchio added, draping an arm over Fraser's shoulder, "weirder than what?"

Now both of them were frowning. Still, Vecchio and Fraser had been friends for a long time and Fraser barely hesitated a second before saying, "Ray, I'm afraid there is something I've been keeping from you."

"From both of us," Ray muttered.

Fraser gave no indication of having heard. "For the past three years, since shortly after his death, I have been seeing the ghost of my father."

Vecchio blinked. "Seeing?"

"And occasionally conversing with," Fraser admitted.

"This explains so much," Vecchio muttered. He heaved a sigh. "Actually, I gotta tell you something, too. I've, well- I've-" He stalled as Stella hustled the last person out of the room, then moved to stand next to Vecchio.

"Everything okay?" Stella asked.

"It's fine," Vecchio said. "I'm just trying to tell them about Pop."

Ray blinked, more connections being made. "No way."

"It was just a few times," Vecchio said quickly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Fraser cut in.

"I've been seeing my dead father, too," Vecchio said. "Just a few times, but..." He winced. "I gotta be honest, Benny, I sometimes suspected that I wasn't the only one, but I was so scared of being wrong that I never said anything. I'm sorry. I should've said something."

Fraser looked like he'd been punched in the face.

Ray glanced over at Stella. She nodded back and hooked her hand in Vecchio's elbow. "I think it's time to order now," she said.

"Great idea," Ray said, grabbing Fraser's arm in turn and tugging him to the opposite side of the room from Vecchio and Stella. "What do you want, Fraser?" When he didn't get a response, he bulldozed ahead, "How about steak? We don't get steak very often. Or lobster. I haven't had lobster since I was in Vegas."

"How about both?" Stella offered from the other side of the room. "Steak and lobster for all of us."

Vecchio shook himself. "Sounds good, honey."

"Fraser?"

"That would be fine," Fraser said and Stella picked up the phone. "I'm sorry," Fraser added suddenly. "It's just..." He laughed, his whole body relaxing. "All that time I was hiding and there was no need."

Vecchio smirked. "I know how you feel."

The tension in the room suddenly disappeared. "We're a piece of work," Vecchio said. "The both of us."

"No argument here," Ray murmured. He shared a commiserating glance with Stella. "So what's the plan with Muldoon?"

Vecchio lost his smile. "He's trying to move some serious shit: machine guns, nerve gas, even a few missiles. Since that's more firepower than the mob really has a use for, I'm acting as broker. We're meeting tomorrow at nine with the buyers. The plan is to bring down a lot of scumbags in a single arrest."

"Nine AM or PM?" Ray asked.

"AM. Apparently Muldoon is planning on catching a flight in the afternoon."

Fraser frowned. "That isn't a very big window of opportunity to capture him on US soil. And he's had five decades to learn how to hide himself in Canada."

"I know," Vecchio said, looking unhappy. "Actually, in some ways it's good that you're here. I'd feel a lot better with you backing me up."

"Boyd's not going to like that," Stella pointed out. "But, then again, the FBI is the one who brought you back to Chicago; he shouldn't be surprised if your precinct ends up getting involved in the case."

"Exactly," Vecchio said with clear satisfaction. "So what do you say, Benny? Feel like a stakeout?"

"I'll be happy to help," Fraser answered.

"Me, too," Ray offered.

"I thought you worked in the motor pool," Stella said.

Fraser and Vecchio stared at her, then at Ray. "What?" Ray said defensively. "Can't I e-mail my own sister?" He winced. "Okay, that didn't come out right."

"You've been e-mailing Stella and then get on me about witness protection?" Vecchio asked, sounding disbelieving. "You got some balls, Stanley."

"Don't call me that," Ray said with a wince. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

"Exactly," Vecchio said with a scowl. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Stella cleared her throat pointedly. "_We_ were thinking that Ray had been homeless for two years."

"Yeah," Ray said. "Anyone who was following me to get to Stella would've given up a long time ago."

There was an awkward silence. "Maybe we should go through the plan for tomorrow," Fraser offered. Ray could've kissed him. Would have, if they'd been alone in the room.

The next couple of hours were spent working out a plan. Really, there wasn't much to it: the location and time had both been set by Muldoon and while Ray would've preferred someplace a bit less public than the mall, at least they were meeting at the loading docks, which should hopefully be abandoned on a Sunday. The problem was trying to come up with an effective hiding place for the backup. Fraser, demonstrating that even a few years in Chicago couldn't teach a small-town boy everything, suggested that they wait nearby in cars. Ray pointed out that they'd be the only cars there, which would look rather suspicious. Stella suggested arriving early and hiding behind whatever was available. Vecchio pointed out that Muldoon was smart enough to check hiding places before initiating a deal.

Finally, one big pile of lobster shells later, they came to a workable, if not great, solution: Fraser, Ray, Welsh (who agreed via phone), and Inspector Thatcher (Ray had no idea how she got involved) would wait outside the loading dock with cars. Maggie (whose involvement Ray could actually agree with; she was like Fraser, but practical) would be in a sniper's perch inside the loading dock, assuming there was someplace that would suit the purpose. Stella (over Ray's vociferous protests and Vecchio's more resigned ones) would accompany Vecchio while wearing a wire. The moment the deal was made (or blown), the backup would drive in and arrest the bad guys.

Food gone and plans finalized, Vecchio and Stella were telling Fraser the story of how they met. Ray, who had heard the story before and had absolutely no need to hear it again, was flipping through the eighty or so channels on the television when there was a knock at the door. Glances were exchanged and Fraser and Ray wandered back into the bathroom.

Only to come out a few second later, when Vecchio called out the all clear. "Your ride's here."

Ray opened the bathroom door and winced. Their "ride" consisted of two enormous pieces of expensive-looking luggage sitting on a bellhop's cart. The bellhop looked distinctly amused.

"Oh dear," Fraser said. Ray just shook his head and sighed.

oOo

The next morning found Fraser and Ray in a car across the street from the meeting place. Though, judging from the glares Fraser was giving the air in the back seat, it was more like Fraser, Ray, and Fraser's dead dad. Ray, whose eyes were itching from a new pair of contacts, decided he could use the distraction. "Fraser, do we have company?"

Fraser opened his mouth and then closed it again, his ramrod posture relaxing just a hair. "Actually, we do." To the back seat he added, "He figured it out on his own, Dad. And, really, can you blame him? You do have a tendency to appear at the most inconvenient time." Suddenly Fraser's face got really red. "Dad! That is completely inappropriate!"

Ray snickered. "Hey Mr. Fraser," he called, not bothering to look back. It was easier to talk to thin air when he wasn't looking at it. Of course, talking to Fraser's dad had issues aside from the dead thing and at the last minute he changed what he was going to say. "I just wanted to say that you have a great son."

Fraser flushed again, but this time he was smiling. "Thank you, Ray." To his dad, he added, "Ray quite likes Maggie, too, but you can hardly take credit for how she turned out."

Ray snorted. From what he'd heard, Robert Fraser couldn't take credit for how any of his kids turned out. A contribution of genetic material only went so far. Though that brought forward a worry he'd been trying not to think about. "Think Maggie's okay in there?" They had been able to find a perch for her, a good one with a ledge she could duck behind, but there was no way for her to get up or down from it without assistance and Ray didn't like the idea of her being trapped if a firefight broke out.

"She'll be fine," Fraser said for the fourth time that day. "It would be impossible for her to be directly targeted from her position, and the possibility of ricochets is very slim."

Ray just grunted, not at all satisfied.

At that moment, the radio hissed and Welsh's voice said, _A car just entered the docks from our entrance. Looks like it could be Muldoon._

Sure enough, two minutes later Muldoon's voice came through the receiver for Stella's wire. _What's she doing here?_

Vecchio's voice, flat and cold. _She likes the mall. Figured I'd take her shopping after._

_You spoil her._

_I make her happy, she makes me happy_. Ray could hear the leer in Vecchio's voice, and had to fight down the instinctive urge to go in there and beat the shit out of him. Of course, Stella hadn't been very fond of that instinct, even when they were married.

Muldoon just grunted. _Where's the buyer?_

_Should be here any minute now_. Vecchio was doing a good job of sounding emotionless, but Ray could hear the tension underlying his words. The next few awkward minutes didn't help.

_Another car_, Welsh reported. Ray held his breath.

He let it out again as the new arrival proved to be the buyer and he and Fraser listened carefully as the deal went down, smooth as silk. They were nearly home.

Apparently Fraser's dad wasn't as patient, because Fraser huffed and said, "We can't go in there, Dad, not while Ray and Stella remain within the building. We'll arrest Muldoon and his associates as soon as they leave the dock." A pause, Fraser scowling. "Honestly, Dad. You keep telling me about how you tracked Muldoon for weeks. Surely you have sufficient patience to wait another five minutes."

Which of course, of _course_ was when Welsh's voice came over the radio. _Damn it. We have two cars coming in, both with flashing lights. It's gotta be Boyd_.

"_Fuck_," Ray shouted, turning the key. The moment the engine caught he hit the gas and, with a silent apology to his dad, he drove right through the closed loading door.

He stopped almost immediately as bullets punched into the Goat's windshield. "Out, out, out!" he shouted, throwing himself out of the car and ducking behind the open door. He pulled out the gun that had Welsh arranged for him to carry, and blinked his eyes hard a couple of times. The contacts that had been a condition of carrying weren't very comfortable, but he had to admit they were a hell of a lot more convenient than his glasses had been. He could clearly see Boyd and the other FBI agents pinned down behind their vehicles, hiding from nearly continuous fire from the absurdly well-armed bad guys who were taking cover behind piles of pallets. Careful shots from right next to the ceiling were keeping the bad guys from coming any closer which put the bad guys and the Fibbies in a stalemate until someone ran out of ammo. Judging from the continual rata-tat-tat of the bad guys machine guns, Ray wasn't holding out much hope for the good guys.

Then a second car came careening in through the open door on the other side of the loading dock. Ray didn't even think, just ran to the side, trusting the distraction to keep the bullets away from him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Fraser moving around in the opposite direction and despite everything, he smiled. They made a hell of a team.

Reaching the side of the pallets, Ray shouted, "Freeze, dirt bags!"

At nearly the same time Fraser's voice came from the other side, "Gentlemen, you are under arrest. Please lay down your firearms and surrender."

Ray rolled his eyes, but kept his gun pointed on the scumbags. For a moment it seemed like they were going to resist, but a well-placed shot from Maggie and the addition of Welsh and Vecchio's guns and Stella's pretty but deadly-looking derringer won the day.

At least until Fraser looked around and asked, "Where is Muldoon?"

Of course, there was only one exit that wasn't currently being covered by the good guys - namely the door that went into the mall, which Muldoon had been standing near from the beginning - so the answer to the question was pretty damn obvious. "Go," Welsh said. "The inspector and I have the situation in hand."

Ray didn't need to be told twice, especially since Fraser was already through the door and rapidly fading off in the distance. Ray swore and shot after him, Vecchio and Stella on his heels. In the back of his mind, Ray grudgingly admitted that Vecchio (or maybe it was witness protection) had been good for Stella - she'd always been a strong woman, but in the past she'd let other people do her dirty work. Clearly that wasn't true any longer.

The maze of corridors between the loading dock and the mall proper were painted an industrial mint green and dimly lit. Ray and company moved as quickly as they could, but clearing each turn before they took it meant lots of stops and by the time they reached an intersection with two branches, there was no indication of which way Muldoon had gone. "We'll take the left," Vecchio announced and without pausing started down the left-hand corridor, Stella by his side.

Ray shrugged and started down the right, arms stretched out, holding the gun at waist level but pointed at the floor. Fraser was a bright red, comforting presence at his right shoulder and Ray took comfort in the company, even as they picked up the pace.

Suddenly two shots rang out and Ray swore and sprinted forward. He only managed a couple of seconds before Fraser flew past him and a moment later they burst out into a brightly-lit atrium. It took Ray's eyes a second to adjust to the glaring sunlight that came in through the skylights; by the time he was able to make out enough to realize they were in the mall center, Fraser was a hundred feet away and moving fast in the direction of a Ferris wheel.

A Ferris wheel in a fucking mall. What would they come up with next?

Cop training was coming back hard and fast now, which was why Ray ignored the voice in his head yelling at him to go stand next to Fraser, and instead ran around the edges of the atrium, using the decorative plants, water exhibits, and train (seriously, what the fuck was up with this mall?) for cover. He got behind the Ferris wheel to find that Fraser and the bad guy were apparently _going for a fucking ride_ on opposite sides of the wheel and just in time to hear the Muldoon say, "Your mother was a pretty woman, Benton, but when I shot her she dropped like a big old sack of potatoes."

Ray saw red. Literally, for a moment all he could see was blood. He snarled and blinked hard and ran for the Ferris wheel, jumping onto Fraser's car as it got close to the ground. "Ray!" Fraser said in surprise.

"Fraser," Ray said grimly. "Let's get this fucker."

"I'm afraid there's a complication," Fraser said. He glanced over to the other side of the Ferris wheel.

Ray followed the glance to see Muldoon jumping off as soon as he was close enough to do so in one piece. A second later something else caught his eye: a black and grey bundle bristling wires that was attached to the struts next to the car Muldoon had been standing in. "Fraser, is that-?"

"A bomb," Fraser said. "And if that canister is labeled properly, it contains enough nerve gas to kill everyone in this mall." He gook a deep breath. "I believe I know how to disarm it, but I'm afraid it'll take both of us. I think if we climb over-"

"Fuck that," Ray said flatly. "When the car gets to the bottom, we're jumping off."

"Ray, I don't think you understand what will happen if-"

"Don't tell me what I do and don't understand, Fraser. I'm not going to climb to the other side of this goddamned Ferris wheel, not when I can just get off and wait for the bomb to come to us."

"Ah." Fraser licked his lip. "That is an excellent idea, Ray."

Despite the situation, Ray managed to find a smirk in him.

They were just coming over the edge of the Ferris wheel when Fraser said, "Oh dear."

Ray hated it when Fraser said that and he hated it even more when he followed Fraser's line of sight to find Muldoon on the opposite side of the atrium, pointing a gun at Vecchio and Stella. "Fuck."

"Ray-"

"We have to stop the bomb, Fraser."

"I know, but-"

"Fraser, _jump_. Jump _now_."

Fraser's spine straightened for just a moment and then he was diving out of the car, rolling on impact and popping right back up on his feet. Ray wasn't anywhere near as graceful and he managed to lose a contact as he sprawled across the floor. Still, they were both off and the bomb was making its way down. Ray scrambled to his feet and ran over to the control stand for the ride.

Behind him, he heard gunshots going off and it took everything he had not to let himself be distracted. Even so, his eyes burned as he looked over the controls.

"Now, Ray!" Fraser shouted and Ray slammed his hand down against the emergency cut-off for the ride. Unfortunately, it didn't stop the ride right away and Ray swore as he realized he was going to be climbing after all.

"How much time left?" he huffed as he ran over to where Fraser was already moving up the skeleton of the wheel.

"Thirty-five seconds," Fraser said grimly, reaching down to help pull Ray up to the first spoke. Once on the wheel itself, Ray was able to make his own way up, scrambling after Fraser as fast as he could move without falling off.

"Fifteen seconds left," Fraser announced as they reached the bomb. "Perhaps if we synchronize our breathing-"

"No fucking time," Ray wheezed. "Just tell me what I gotta do."

Fraser glanced at the bomb for a full five of their precious seconds. Nodding, apparently to himself, he said, "On the count of three, pull the black wire."

Ray reached out and took hold of the black wire. "One," Fraser said.

Ray took a deep breath. "Two."

Ray closed his eyes and prayed that those gunshots had nothing to do with Stella.

"Three."

With a spasmodic jerk of his wrist, Ray pulled out the black wire and immediately hunched down as best as he could against the rail, eyes screwed tightly shut and holding his breath.

A second later he opened one eye to find Fraser watching him with a bemused look on his face. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Ray said, forcing his body to unclench. "Just fine. Bomb disarmed?"

"It appears so." He bit his lip and glanced over to where Muldoon and the others had been standing. From this angle they couldn't see anything. "If you're sure you're all right..."

"Go," Ray said. "I'm right behind you."

Fraser reached the ground first, of course, and took off at a run. Ray made it down a few seconds later and sprinted around the fucking fake mountain to see...

Oh, shit.

To see Vecchio lying on the ground, covered in blood.

Stella was kneeling next to Vecchio, her hands pressing down hard against his chest. She was covered in blood, too, but she appeared unhurt. _Thank God_, Ray thought, and he would've felt guilty about the thought if he didn't know Vecchio felt the same way.

Next to them stood Maggie, holding her rifle in one hand and looking grim as she spoke into a cell phone.

Just beyond Vecchio was Muldoon's body, with most of his head blown off. Ray glanced at Maggie's rifle and drew some conclusions.

Ray had stumbled to a stop at the sight, but Fraser had kept on going and in moments he was kneeling on the ground next to Stella, his fingers going to Vecchio's neck to take a pulse. Ray snapped back to reality and ran forward the last few steps to stand next to Maggie, ignoring Welsh and Thatcher, who apparently had finally found their way into the mall.

"Ambulance?" he asked as Maggie hung up the phone.

"On its way," she said, and her voice shook just a little. Ray wondered if she'd ever killed another human being before.

"Here," he said gently, getting a grip on the rifle. "Let me get that."

Her hand tightened on the rifle for a second, but Ray pulled slightly and she let go. "It's okay," Ray said, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder.

She shook her head. "It's my fault," she said quickly, her voice just a bit high. "He had his gun out and I knew he was going to shoot but... If I hadn't hesitated, if I had shot him when I had the opening-"

"Hey," Ray said soothingly, pulling her into an embrace. "It's not your fault. It's no one's fault except that fucker Muldoon."

Maggie just shook her head and buried her face in Ray's neck, not crying, but shaking like a leaf.

oOo

There were chairs sitting just outside Vecchio's room, so Ray and Fraser skipped the waiting room entirely. They couldn't go into the room itself, though, since ICU only let one person in at a time and currently a very pregnant woman was in there. Apparently that woman was the Italian sex kitten Ray had helped rescue from a burning house after he first met Fraser; so much had happened since then that Ray had almost forgotten the incident.

The door to the room opened and Fraser shot to his feet. "How is he?" he asked.

"Still unconscious," she sighed, waddling over to droop down heavily in the seat Fraser had just gotten out of. "They can't say for sure if he's going to pull through."

There was a long, painful silence. Fraser looked longingly at Vecchio's door, but ICU also had strict limits on how many visitors a guy could have and Vecchio's sister had used up this hour's worth. Stella had gotten the visiting time from the previous hour and then had returned, under protest, to the hotel with instructions to not come back until she'd washed Vecchio's blood off and napped for at least a couple of hours.

With a sigh, Fraser sat down on Francesca's other side. Even over the woman's enormous belly, Ray could see Fraser stealing glances at the woman. Finally she sighed and said, "I'm not married." Her tone was surprisingly mild; in better circumstances Ray thought it might've come out amused.

"Ah," Fraser said, looking awkward.

The woman did laugh at that. "It's okay, Frase. It's not like I got knocked up by a guy who wouldn't do the right thing. In fact, there really wasn't even a guy involved." She shrugged. "All my life I wanted kids and I thought I had to get married to have them. Thing is, these days a woman has other options." She patted her belly. "In some ways you could call this an immaculate conception." Then, with a wicked smile, she added, "At least that's what I tell Ma when she asks."

Ray managed a smile as well. He could like this woman, he thought.

Fraser was clearly too anxious to smile, but he did manage a grimace. "I'm very happy for you, Francesca."

"Thank you, Fraser," she said softly. Her smile slid away, but her face didn't look as tense as it had when she'd come out of Vecchio's room and after a moment she leaned over to place a quick kiss on Fraser's cheek.

"Now, come and help me up," she said briskly as Fraser turned as red as his uniform. "The baby's kicking my bladder and things are going to get awful messy in here if I don't get out of this chair right now."

With motivation like that, Ray and Fraser managed to get her up out of the chair and hustling down the hall in record time.

oOo

When Vecchio woke up three days later, Fraser, Stella, and Frannie (who Ray was liking more and more as he got to know her better) were all at his side. Technically Ray was there, too, but he was mostly there for moral support and still reeked of dirty engine oil, so he stayed back in the corner and read the newspaper. Apparently Robert Fraser's old partner, Buck Frobisher, had managed to stumble across Muldoon's men while on a training exercise in the Middle of Nowhere, Canada. Not only had they captured the men, but also a large cache of illegal arms. Including a nuclear submarine that Muldoon had apparently picked up on the black market.

A fucking submarine. Jesus.

Thatcher had gone back north to check out the submarine and to talk herself up to the brass. Ray'd be surprised if she came back; she'd made it pretty clear that she was looking for a promotion that would get her back home. As long as she didn't try (again) to talk Fraser into joining her, Ray wished her the best of luck.

"Ray," Fraser said and Ray looked up automatically, before his brain had time to remind him that Fraser was probably speaking to Vecchio.

Probably, but not definitely, as Fraser was standing next to him. "Yeah?"

"If you're ready, we can pick up Diefenbaker now," Fraser said. He smiled that sneaky Mountie smile. "I believe Stella would like some time alone with Ray."

"I'll bet," Ray muttered. "Let me say goodbye and then we can go, okay?"

Fraser nodded and moved towards the door looking a bit impatient. Ray couldn't blame him; the wolf had been with Turnbull since this whole mess started and as much as Ray liked the guy, a week with Turnbull could turn you nuts.

Frannie had already gone, apparently, so it was just Ray, Vecchio, and Stella at the bed. Vecchio looked like hell, but still not as bad as he had before. "Hello, Stanley," Vecchio croaked with a shit-eating grin.

Ray couldn't help but grin back. "Looks like you're going to make it after all, Vecchio."

Vecchio just rolled his eyes and asked Stella for some more ice chips.

Leaving Vecchio to his sucking, Ray looked up at Stella. "So what's next?"

She smiled - a little soft, a little sad - and ran her fingers over Vecchio's bald head as she answered, "Witness protection. We've got the choice of running a bookstore in Billings, Montana or running a bowling alley in Miami."

"Miami, Florida?" Ray asked. She nodded and Ray let out a snort. "Tough call there."

Stella laughed. "I have to admit, living next to the ocean sounds nice."

"And Vecchio'll fit right in with all the style pigs down there," Ray answered. He glanced down to see if Vecchio was sufficiently annoyed by the jab, but the guy was already asleep again.

"Don't worry, there'll be plenty of time to irritate him later," Stella promised. "He's going to be in the hospital for at least the next few weeks. Maybe longer, if it takes more time than they expect to set us up in Florida."

"I'll remember you said that," Ray answered with his best attempt at a smile. He couldn't quite manage it, though. "You know I won't be able to contact you this time," he added after a moment.

"I know," Stella said quietly, and Ray thought he saw a hint of regret in her eyes, but maybe that was just him. "We've had a good run, Ray. You were always a good friend, even when everything else fell apart."

"You, too," Ray said, clearing his suddenly tight throat. "I'm sorry I was such an asshole to you when you were with Orsini."

"You were an asshole to _Orsini_," Stella clarified. "And it turns out you were right to be. But Ray's a good man. He makes me happy."

"Yeah, he is," Ray admitted. "And Fraser's great. Amazing, really."

They smiled at each other. "You take care of yourself, Ray," Stella said.

If they hadn't been on opposite sides of Vecchio's bed, Ray might have kissed her on the cheek. Instead he answered, "You, too, Stell. Have a great life," and with a quick nod and a flash of a grin, Ray walked out of the door.

Fraser was standing just on the other side, holding his hat in his hands and worrying the brim. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

Ray grinned at him, feeling happier and more free than he'd felt in years. "Everything's perfect, Fraser. Come on, pitter patter, let's get at 'er."

oOo

Vecchio ended up staying in the hospital for five weeks, three of which were actually necessary. He and Stella got married in the hospital chapel on week four. Ray and Fraser were there, of course, with Fraser standing up for Vecchio and Ray standing up for Stella (which Frannie thought was hilarious, though it nearly gave Vecchio's mom a heart attack). Vecchio's family was there, of course, along with most of the 27th precinct. Ray's parents came, since Stella's folks had died shortly after she and Ray had gotten married, and they sat in her side of the aisle. They were joined by Maggie, Turnbull, and Diefenbaker, the latter of whom spent most of the ceremony snacking on the cookies that Ray's mom had smuggled in.

The reception was held at a club owned by two of the cops. Apparently the two did comedy routines on Tuesday nights, but the rest of the time the club had bands. One of those bands played dance music all night and Ray got to dance in public with Fraser for the first time. They got a lot of whistles when Ray laid one on Fraser right there on the dance floor, but no one did anything that might require Ray to shut them up so that was all right.

Witsec hadn't been happy about Vecchio (and to a lesser extent, Stella) leaving the heavily guarded confines of the hospital, but they couldn't stop him from going to a party packed full of cops in a club owned by cops. That didn't stop them from complaining loudly and often to whoever would listen.

Finally Vecchio and Stella boarded a plane for Albany; they'd leave from there to end up where ever Witsec was going to place them (Florida, not that Ray was supposed to know that). There was an impromptu going-away party full of hugs and well-wishes and good-bye licks from Dief and even a tiny bit of rice thrown by the irrepressible Ma Vecchio, but soon after the plane took off everyone was left standing around in front of the airport with that tired, let-down feeling that came when a really good party ended.

Folks trickled off in ones and twos until it was just Fraser and Ray and Diefenbaker hovering around the taxi stand, waiting for a cab to show up. "You okay, Fraser?" Ray asked, bumping a brown-clad shoulder with his own. (Thatcher never had made it back. Her replacement was a gruff, old-school sort of guy who was burning off the last couple years of his service before he could retire and he didn't much care what his subordinates wore as long as it was RCMP issue. Fraser had immediately brought out a brown uniform that was apparently his favorite and he'd worn it every day since.)

"I'm fine," Fraser said in the most unconvincing tone of voice possible.

Diefenbaker whined and leaned up against Fraser's leg. Ray was about to do the same when a cab finally showed up. Miracle of miracles, it was one of the few cabs in town that would let Dief ride along.

They all climbed in and Fraser started to give directions when Ray cut in. "Lincoln Park."

Fraser glanced at Ray oddly, but just nodded in response to the driver's questioning glance and settled back in the seat. He was silent as the car weaved through traffic, but his hand inched over until it was holding Ray's, carefully hidden in the shadows between their two bodies. Ray stared out the window to hide his grin.

The park itself was quiet this time of the afternoon, with adults and older kids at work and school and younger kids back at the daycare getting their naps. Diefenbaker bounded across the lawn, doing an excellent job of hitting every stray patch of snow along the way. Fraser watched the wolf with a sad smile and Ray watched Fraser with a twist of worry in his chest.

"Okay, Fraser, spill. What's wrong?"

Fraser sighed. "Honestly, Ray, it isn't that big of a deal."

Ray crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

"It's really not," Fraser said defensively. "It's just... my father."

"Your dead dad?" Ray asked, lowering his arms and looking around suspiciously. "Is he here?"

"That's just the problem, Ray. He isn't here, and hasn't been here since Muldoon died."

"Oh," Ray said. He scowled. "That prick."

"Really, Ray, that's not..."

"Don't defend him, Fraser. The bastard abandoned you when you were a kid and here he is abandoning you again. That fucker should _never_ have been allowed to-"

"I say, that's a bit harsh."

Fraser gasped "Dad?" and Ray froze mid-word. He slowly turned on his heel to see a man in sixties standing right behind them. Next to the man was a pretty woman at least thirty years younger; she had long red hair and Fraser's eyes. Both of them were not-quite solid; if Ray squinted he could almost see through them to the trees they were standing in front of. "Holy shit," Ray said.

"You can see them?" Fraser asked. "How can you see them?"

"Because we want you to," the woman - Fraser's _mom_, holy _shit_ - said gently. "We wanted to meet the man our son fell in love with."

She elbowed Fraser's dad in the side. Bob Fraser grumbled for a second, but said, "Well, if you had to fall in love with a man, I guess the Yank isn't too bad." He turned to Ray and added, "That private investigator's exam is coming up soon. I trust you're prepared."

"I am," Ray said, stuck between indignation at the thought that he couldn't manage to pass a lousy PI exam (he'd been a cop, for Christ's sake, and he'd come up against a lot of PIs while he'd been on the job) and discomfort at the idea that Fraser's dad was checking up on them. He settled for plain old anger. "You been spying on us?"

"Just making sure my son is well taken care of," Bob replied, the hypocrite.

Ray was just about to point that out when Fraser said, in a choked voice, "Mom?"

The woman smiled. "Yes, Benton."

Fraser's eyes were very bright as he repeated, "Mom."

This time she didn't say anything, just pulled him into a hug.

Ray felt a suspicious stinging in his own eyes, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. Turning away to give Fraser and his mom a bit of privacy, he found himself facing Bob, who looked unhappy. Ray had a sinking feeling in his gut. "This is the last time, isn't it?" he asked. "The last time Fraser's going to see either of you."

"I honestly don't know," Bob said. "Muldoon was the reason why I hadn't moved on; when he died I honestly thought I wouldn't be able to come back. Caroline wanted to see Ben again, though, and to meet you and somehow she made this happen. Maybe it can happen again, maybe it can't. It's out of my hands."

Ray glanced back to see Fraser clinging to his mother with all of the desperation of an orphaned six-year-old. "I hope it happens again," he said.

"Me, too, Son," Bob said softly. "Me, too."

Fraser and his mom talked for a long time, while Ray and Fraser's dad exchanged awkward small talk. Finally, when the sun was getting low in the sky, Caroline said, "It's time for us to leave."

Fraser looked crushed, but nodded. "Of course. It was-it was so good to see you," he said and the overwhelming emotion in his tone made up for the formality of his words.

To hell with whoever could see; Ray reached out and took Fraser's hand. Fraser squeezed so tightly that it hurt, but Ray just squeezed back and Fraser's whole body relaxed a tiny bit. "I love you both," Fraser added, and his voice was so thick his throat had to have hurt to squeeze those words out. "I hope to see you again."

"You will, Son," Bob said with a confidence that Ray found highly suspicious, and he reached out his hand. He and Fraser exchanged a proper, but hearty handshake.

Caroline pulled her son in for another hug. "I love you so much, Benton," she murmured. "You take care of yourself."

"I will," Fraser said, letting go of Ray to return his mother's embrace. "I love you, too."

He was still holding onto Caroline when she and Bob faded away into nothingness.

Fraser took a deep breath that sounded like a sob and Ray pulled him into a hug of his own. "You okay?" he asked worriedly.

Fraser squeezed him tight one more time and then let go. His eyes were still shiny, but Ray was surprised to see him smile. "I'm great, Ray." He laughed a little. "Greatness."

"Really?" Ray asked, doubtfully.

"Really." Fraser wiped his eyes as he, he explained, "I got to say goodbye, Ray. I got to see my mother one last time and to say goodbye to her and to my father. How could I not be grateful for such a gift?"

Ray smiled a little, getting it. "So you're ready to go, then?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser said, reaching out and taking Ray's hand. "Let's go home."

_And that's the end, folks. I just want to take this opportunity to thank my fabulous beta, __**blackpapertiger**__, who stuck with this series from the very first story. Also, big thanks to __**andeincascade**__, who watched the episodes with me to keep me motivated._


End file.
